Bearing Witness To Time
by Lyta Halifax
Summary: In 2094, Chloe Price-Caulfield passed away, taking to her grave the secret of the storm that destroyed Arcadia Bay almost a century earlier. Twelve years later, her great-grandson William is poised to discover the truth at last, as well make as a startling revelation: he may have inherited more than just the family name. [A sequel to Grande Dame, so go read that first!]
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Hey! You! Yes you. This story is a sequel to Grande Dame - which people, for some strange reason, keep insisting is halfway decent, so maybe you should check it out. Suffice it to say, without having read that series first, you will be completely, utterly mystified (probably) by what's going on in this tale of the far flung future (and waffles).**_

 ** _And for the fans who were hoping for maybe a little bit more? Here you go, kids :) I hope you enjoy._**

* * *

 **December 2105**

"In her final collection of essays, Anastasia Burch posited that as society grew increasingly able to replicate physical items on demand with greater and greater fidelity, that instead of diluting the perceived value of the original, there would be a sharper focus on 'authenticity'. By that, she meant we would cling ever tighter to what she referred to as 'prime sources'. So consider: in a world where a famous work such as the Mona Lisa can now be perfectly duplicated - right down to the precise molecular chemical makeup and carbon-14 content - at a financial cost that is not unobtainable for many, why might we still find the original to be far more desirable? Herr Price, we have little time remaining today, so why don't we start with you? You're the lone history major of the class, and I believe we'd all benefit from your perspective on this topic."

William Price - actually, William Avinash Price-Caulfield-Belic-O'Reilly, though he'd shortened it years ago, because honestly, what a mouthful! - wrenched his gaze from the nearest window, fixated until a moment ago on the spectacular view of the Swiss Alps. Most days, he was content, even eager, to be a fully engaged participant in his "Philosophy of the Mid to Late 21st Century" course. Already halfway through his second year at the Grindelwald annex of the Doctorow Institute for the Arts and Sciences, he was normally a fastidious student. But the lure of the upcoming Winter Break, combined with his excitement over the personal project he planned on pursuing during his vacation, caused his attention to drift elsewhere.

Fortunately, he'd recently installed a grey market modification into his neural weblink, one which allowed him to buffer the last two minutes of whatever he'd heard and then quickly recall it for playback; it wasn't exactly cheating, but DIAS tended to frown upon the active use of such enhancements.

Still, it gave him a easy way out of his predicament.

Clearing his throat, William adopted a thoughtful demeanor, nodding his head once, and murmured, "Well, that's a fascinating question, Professor. Give me a moment to think on my response." He was relieved to find an appropriately understanding expression on his instructor's face.

 _Or Old Lady Holtzmann doesn't feel like calling bullshit on me...at least, not yet._

As he quickly performed a mental review of the last few seconds of audio, he groaned internally, chiding himself for not paying attention. It was a good question, one he knew he had an appropriate answer for; one he'd like to think would foster a good discussion among the other students in the small classroom, even though that discussion would probably have to be conducted online. It also made sense why Hotlzmann singled out; like the professor said, he'd recently declared History as his major, with a subject matter focus on modern archeology and antiquities. At the start of the semester, he'd come to the conclusion that as mankind increasingly adopted a 'disposable culture', pursuing a better understanding of the development of society through its relationship to physical ephemera and artifacts - as well as its methods of recording individual thoughts and expressions - was going to be of tremendous value. At any rate, he definitely saw it as something he'd like to spend a good chunk of his life on. He came from considerable money, so it wasn't like he had to worry about how to support himself financially. Also, the pursuit of the liberal arts wasn't as disdained as it had been sixty to eighty years ago, thanks in no small part to the ever-increasing use of technologies that slowly chipped away at the foolish notion of 'artificially induced scarcity'.

Clearing his throat, he began, "Okay. Sure, we can make copies of things that are now so perfect, we have to watermark the individual atoms in order to tell them apart. But above all else, there is one thing that the original possesses that can never be duplicated."

"Oh?" the professor said, quirking a brow in interest. "And what would that be?"

"Time." William replied, casually stretching out at his desk. "Or rather, experience over time. I mean, the Mona Lisa copy from your example might look just as pretty, and touch people emotionally in exactly the same way, but if hasn't...ahh…." He paused for a moment, trying to determine how best to explain the concept forming in his mind.

"...it hasn't borne witness to time. It didn't acculate centuries of experience through its existence. It isn't the actual canvas touched by Da Vinci's own hands, wasn't in the same room as him. Absorbing the molecules of oxygen breathed out from the master's lungs. The original has a history; we can talk about the places it's been. The people who've owned it, and how all of those experiences both related to and shaped us as a civilization" He started to tick off at his fingers. "King Francois the First. And Napoleon Bonaparte. It was there when the Palace of Versailles was stormed during the First French Revolution. It was moved from place to place during the course of any number of wars; it was stolen almost two centuries ago, and it was years before someone found it in the thief's apartment. People have thrown acid at it, and ceramic cups, tried to vandalize it with spray paint…" William's hands began to move with frenetic animation as he continued to expound upon his point, "And it was almost lost during the terrorist attack that destroyed the original Eiffel Tower and half the Louvre. Imagine the stories it could tell us, if only it could talk!" He glanced around sheepishly for a moment, coughed once, and then dialed back his enthusiasm as he continued.

"But the copy? What's it seen? What stories could it tell us? Would it be anything more than 'Hi, I'm a technologically-created copy of one of the greatest artistic works of the Italian Renaissance. I was manufactured by an Ericsson HyperForge Model Nine three-d printer. The time between someone pushing a button and my completion was two hours, five minutes, and the only way to tell the difference is by scanning for the eight atoms of Nickel-60 in the smile, which were intentionally injected to act as a watermark.'?"

Professor Holtzmann tilted her head, twitched her lips, and said, "But couldn't the copy then go on to experience a life of its own, as you so put it? Are you saying that the mere application of time alone is what creates value and authenticity?"

William shook his head, clearly seeing where this was going, "Well, no. The copy could survive to the next millennium, and it might be the subject of any number of fascinating stories during that time, but so what? Everyone'll always ask, 'Yeah, but what about the original?'. Because - ah - because _we_ give it value, based on originality. Or, I guess, more like our perception of it. Because the first was the product of the intelligence and imagination of one of history's greatest creative minds. You can't reproduce the precise number of brush strokes it took to create the Mona Lisa, in precisely the same order that they were applied. You can't duplicate the thought and care that Leonardo put into it, what he was feeling, what was motivating him as he worked. The inspiration that moved him to consider picking up the brush and start working in the first place. No machine can recreate any of that, ever, nor the sheer human effort that was involved the first time around. And most important of all, it can't duplicate the...". He clenched his hands in the air, struggling to come up with a better word for what he was about to say. Failed, and proceeded regardless. "...the soul. Davinci put a piece of himself in that work. I think that's something we can all sense, when we look at it. Even a child puts a piece of themselves, imparts soul, when they make the simplest drawings. That can never be reproduced in a mere copy"

"Hmmm. Curious. You make it sound like the inherent value of any object is completely dependent on whatever arbitrary and emotional aspects we as a society imbue it with."

 _Wow, thanks for pitching me a softball, Professor…_

"Does a tree falling in the woods make a sound if no one is around to...yeah, I get what you're going with this. And I can't say for certain, of course, but I don't imagine the universe sits around examining and admiring itself. Not unless that's _our_ purpose in life: to do so for it." William gave a soft laugh, then shrugged. "But that's a whole other box of CD's I'm opening up."

A scale of melodic chimes sounded, indicating the official end of class.

"Hmmmmph," the professor spoke up. "I suppose I know better than to ask any of you to consider staying around a few minutes more to discuss Herr Price's answer. Not when this is the last class of the year." Her voice then went up in volume, emphasizing the next point, "But I'm certain that at least a few of you can make the time to post up your thoughts and perspectives on our online discussion node during vacation. Have a wonderful break, and be warned: mid-term examinations begin two weeks after your return, so don't let yourselves get rusty. _Auf Wiedersehen, meine Kinder!"_ the professor concluded with a bemused smirk.

* * *

The next morning found William slowly making his way to the student aircar hanger. A small pack was slung over his shoulder, carrying what few items he absolutely could not do without. Almost anything else he might require, from clothing to books to toiletries, could be replicated on demand when he got to where he was going. It occasionally amused him at how much the older generations, people such as his grandparents, still insisted out of stubborn habit in carrying around heavy suitcases filled to bursting when they traveled.

At the same time, he could understand feeling the need.

He stopped, taking a moment to inhale the crisp, clean winter air of the tiny Swiss village the Institute was located in. It never failed to take his breath away at how absolutely picturesque Grindelwald could be, nestled as it was in the Alps, with its rows of traditional A-frame houses built a century and a half earlier. The campus was perched up at the high end of the valley, and ever after a year and a half living here, he always stopped to pause and take in the sight of the rest of the town.

This particular branch of DIAS was a school with a tiny student body, barely a thousand or so, and was hardly a 'party college'. But it didn't have to be; aircars and hyperloop trains made it easy to live in one country while effortlessly hopping over to another. He could wrap up his homework at the end of the day in his dorm room, and then travel to Prague, Amsterdam, or London if he wanted to spend the weekend partying. The quiet, almost monastic student life suited him; born and raised as he was in the Greater Manhattan Arcology, he'd always felt overly-crowded and fenced in until he came here.

He reached his Subaru Hayabusa XLE and paused to admire his reflection in the polished silver exterior. It was clear to anyone who saw him that he was a mutt, given his colorful parentage, but he thought it worked out in his favor. He was always tall, though appeared especially lanky during his teenage years. Fortunately, DAIS had a fantastic gymnasium, filled with the latest auto-training exercise equipment, and it wasn't long before lean, defined muscle filled out his frame. Mocha colored skin contrasted with the straight, shoulder length waves of dyed platinum white hair. With three genetic parents, it was sometimes difficult to determine who contributed what, but above all else he was absolutely certain he inherited his grandmother Rachel's eyes. Which she in turn inherited from her father, who in turn took after her own father: William's namesake.

One of them, at any rate.

"Hoy, Will. About to jet out?"

Bowing his head for a moment and smiling to himself, he turned to face one of his classmates: Magda Bjorksdottir. He vaguely recalled first meeting her at the tail end of a holographic sculpting elective he took last year, and after several months was more or less convinced she'd signed up for the same philosophy class simply as an excuse to sit next to him. He hadn't cared to give the notion much thought, at least not until recently. It wasn't that he didn't find women attractive; quite the opposite. But he'd suffered a particularly bad breakup with his boyfriend over the summer, and spent the entirety of the last semester burying himself in his books and the gym in order to give his wounded heart time to mend. The last thing he wanted to do was rebound...

 _...on the other hand, maybe it's time to flag myself as available again. Put a toe in the water. Magda's cute, definitely a swiperight!_

And he always did have a thing for redheads, especially ones of the Nordic variety.

Leaning casually against the side of his vehicle, he nodded once. "Yeah. Gonna jump to Amsterdam, and get straight on the hyperloop to Manhattan. I promised my Moms I'd spend Yule and New Years with them. The whole family is gonna be there, for the first time in a long while, and….uhhh." He shrugged, giving a pained smile, "I like my family, but there's so damn many of us. Big noisy crowd. Like, you know….ahhhhh!" He accentuated his point by shaking his outstretched palms at either side of his head. "Get toto burned out on them, after a while."

Magda giggled lightly as she absently twirling a finger around a few crimson ringlets of hair.

"But then I'm going to Oregon. Spending a few days with my grandmother, in the city she grew up in. Kinda part vacation, part extra credit assignment, going through a bunch of family relics up in the attic."

"Or-gone? That's...a place still in America, ya?"

"Oh no no, don't say it like that!" he teased. "They're stone-cray hung up about saying it just right. OR-eh-gun. And yeah, it's just on the other side of the country. Might actually take a ground car there, at least part of the way. Never done anything like that before." He paused a beat, before asking, "How about you?"

"Oh..." Magda made a show of rocking back gently on her heels. "First to London, to pick up my baby sister from her school. Spend a week in Curacao, but then get back home to Reykjavik in time for _J_ _ólabókaflóð_. We've never missed it before, and I'd hate to deal with Mama if we ever did."

William straightened up, his attention sincere. "Yola-bo- huh? Is that really still a thing? I mean, I know a little bit about it. With books?"

She nodded once, over-emphasizing the expression.

"Wow! With actual, physical books, that you wrap up in paper and pass around to each other and collect?"

"Ya-ap!"

It was a Yuletide tradition he'd only recently read about, one he found absolutely fascinating. What, with Iceland insistently, intentionally living with one foot strongly planted in the past, maintaining physical storefronts and appropriate gathering spaces. He had to admit that the idea of exchanging books amongst loved ones, and then spending the rest of the evening quietly reading together as a family held definite appeal for him.

"Well, dizzam!" he said, snapping his fingers in disappointment. "Sounds a lot more relaxing than what I've got ahead of me. Lot of musicians in the family, so it gets…" He took a deep breath and let it out with quick exasperation, "Loud, when everyone gets together. I mean, I can play a few instruments, but it's not what I want to be doing with my life, you know? Not my passion." He shook his head, and added in a low tone of voice, "Rather be reading, if I had the chance."

Magda bit her bottom lip as she smiled shyly. "It sounds like you've got a busy vacation. But meebee, you would like to come and visit me for a day?" She looked away, over at the mountains as a blush crept over her cheeks. "On your way back, right before school starts again?"

 _Hah. Well, here we go. Decision time._

William was old enough now to start appreciating these little decision points as they rose up to meet him. The seemingly small things that could easily set the course of his life for years to come. Sometimes he'd lie awake in bed at night, pondering all of the magnificent possibilities inherent in even the simplest of choices. It wasn't that he was filled with regret or indecisiveness, so much as marveling at the inherently fluctuating nature of existence. What he said next could easily influence the direction of his entire life going forward. There could be any number of stories told, and stories from those stories, stretching out years, even decades, all rooted in what he said next: a yes, or a no.

 _Or maybe not. But what the hell!_

"You know what? Yeah. That sounds really on-top. I'd love to make a day trip of it. Pretty sure we have each other's comlink addresses, so, ah, I'll drop you a text a few days before, and we'll figure it out?"

Magda nodded, clearly trying to play it cool, but succeeding only by half. "Yus! Toto! Uh...I mean." She cleared her throat, as she tried to affect a calmer demeanor. "Sure. That'd be good. Give me a call, whenever."

Pushing himself up from his aircar, he nodded. "You bet." He popped open the gull-wing door on the side, aimlessly tossed his knapsack on the passenger seat, then turned back around. "Have a great vacation, yo."

She waggled her fingertips at him and brightly replied, " _S_ _j_ _áumst síðar_ _!_ "

With that, he climbed into his aircar and took off.

* * *

Two and a half weeks later, William finally made his way to Arcadia Bay. He'd tolerated three or four days of driving at high speed on the sparsely utilized American highway grid before giving up in Denver and renting an aircar to take him the rest of the way. As soon as he touched down at the city's small air terminal, he grabbed the first bus into town. As he stepped off, he pulled his parka tightly around him. There was a chill in the air, and a light dusting of snow, most of which promised to evaporate by the afternoon. He had time to kill before he was scheduled to meet his grandmother, and chose to start the day off with a trip to Price-Caulfield Park. As he approached the twin statues of his great-grandparents in the middle of the commons, he swallowed back hard at the rush of memories that flooded through his mind.

It was twelve years now, just over half his life, since his last visit to Arcadia Bay; specifically, attending his great-grandfather's funeral. As a child, he didn't fully comprehend why there was such a huge crowd to mark the event, one that easily engulfed half the city. He knew she'd been someone important, someone who'd touched the lives of many, but he didn't truly make the connection until that moment.

He reached up and placed a tender hand against the chilly granite of Chloe Price-Caulfield's arm. Though he'd only known her in the last remaining years of her life, he could easily see that her eyes held the same spark, the same vitality, as what was expertly portrayed in this statue of her younger self.

Eyes just like his.

"Hey _parnaana_ ," he breathed out, using the Hindi honorifics that his family had adopted for close family members. "It's….it's really good to see you again." He turned and walked over to a nearby bench, clearing off the last traces of snow before sitting down. Looking back at the memorial, he continued, "Sorry I've been such a stranger, hey? But you know, you grow up, and then you're a teenager, there's a lot of shit to get through, and all that seems like the only important thing in the world…" He laughed lightly, shaking his head. Oh, the stories he'd heard, about the angry, aimless woman-child Chloe had been in her youth. Lashing out in bitter scorn at whatever authority figures crossed her path. Squandering her gifted intellect and ability, mired in self-pity and righteous indignation. But Chloe herself had also been one of the harshest critics of her youth, and to hear her tell the story, as she had time and time again, she'd easily be dead at nineteen if it hadn't been for her best friend and future wife coming back into her life out of the blue.

" _She was my angel, little man. Anything I am today, it's all because of her. She saved me. God, I wish you could have known her."_

His eyes flicked over towards the companion statue of Maxine Price-Caulfield, as he breathed out, "Yeah. Me too."

She died a year before he was born, but after all the stories his mother, grandmother, and great-grandfather told, he half-believed that she'd been there in his childhood, as a living, breathing individual.

But he knew well enough that it was just a trick the heart plays on the mind. Memory was such a mutable thing. It was never her, it wasn't Maxine - sorry, Max, never Maxine - that he knew. Simply other people's filtered impressions of her, filled with bias and prejudiced affection. He fixed his gaze on her, as he rubbed his chin in thought. Certainly she seemed kind, as much as everyone had acclaimed. Whoever carved the statues did a marvelous job in translating so many ineffable qualities of her personality into physical art, but it was still someone else's impression of her, all the same.

Part of the purpose in his coming to Arcadia Bay was the hope of finding some family history about her, some first-hand documentation, things that would help him truly understand who she'd been. As a real, complex, actual flesh-and-blood individual. Granted, it was a school project, and he'd be doing more than just reading and revealing for his own personal pleasure. Items would need to be sealed and preserved in archival-grade bins and bags. The content dispassionately analyzed, ephemeral objects catalogued. In that sense, he was to do nothing more than report on the dull, dry 'scientific truth', and there was a part of him that despised that part of the profession as much as he admired and even took comfort in it. But he desperately wanted to find something that was unique to her, that would shed light upon her character. Her thoughts, her dreams, her hopes and fears, from her own personal perspective. He'd read all of her works over the years, studied her voluminous portfolio along with the textbooks she'd authored, and still he couldn't help but feel that there was some small, but ineffable piece of her that was thus far denied him.

An hour later, he made his way to the Two Whales diner, pausing to linger at the doorway. He groaned with light embarrassment, chuckling as he recalled celebrating his seventh birthday here,. He'd listened eagerly as he ate way too many waffles, rapt in attention as his great-grandfather regaled him with a thousand-and-one tales about the place. Of how her own mother worked here, practically running the diner single handedly! Or at least, that was how Chloe made it sound.

It was immediately like stepping back into the past, in more ways than one. The decor so stubbornly clung to a zeitgeist now over a century old that the entire building might as well have been decoupled from the space-time continuum. He studied the yellowing paper handouts, the archaic physical calendars and photographs hanging on the wall. The historian-in-training in him was impressed; it was meant to look effortless and unaging, but he could see the telltale signs of constant maintenance that indicated just how hard the local historical society was working to preserve the illusion, down to the smell of the dust, the preserved graffiti on the walls, and the music playing over the ancient magnetic-diaphragm speakers. It would be almost perfect, were it not for the obviously modern styles of clothing worn by the patrons.

He sat down at one of the booths, fingers gliding over what he assumed was a century old tabletop. He wasn't sure how much of the booth was original material, recovered in the wake of Megastorm Azrael destroying Arcadia Bay, and how much of it was outright replacement, but it was obvious that the spirit lingered, no matter what. This place felt _old_. Hung heavy with the weight of a million stories, told and untold, all of them mundane, petty, and spectacular. He thought again about his family history, tangled up in this city's own. In this restaurant, and hell, maybe even at this very table. There was legacy here, one tightly bound up into the weft and weave of the fabric Arcadia Bay

A legacy that he felt was completely unearned and undeserved of him.

He closed his eyes, fervently hoping that no one here recognized him.

He blew out a heavy puff of air as he recalled turning sixteen, and receiving a letter - an actual paper letter, with gilded ink and embossed seal! - hand-delivered and everything, from Blackwell Academy. Filled with all sorts of flowery words and phrases, 'personally and cordially inviting him' to apply. But between the lines, the message was clear: as long as he didn't turn out to be a spectacular idiot-child, there was no way in hell the great-grandson of both 'The Grande Dame of Arcadia Bay' and one of the school's most famous teachers was going to be denied admission to the still-prestigious Blackwell.

As soon as he was done reading, he immediately knew what his answer would be. And in barely twenty-four hours, the headmaster received his polite response, thanking him for the opportunity, but otherwise opting - regretfully, of course - to decline applying.

He'd practically heard his great-grandfather cheering him on as he wrote the return letter. And why not? There was nothing in her life that she achieved that she hadn't earned, sometimes with literal sweat and blood, and William aspired to emulate her as much as possible. True, his family fortune kept his life easy and comfortable, more than her early years had ever been, so he'd be damned if he didn't earn his own mark in this world when he could. By his own merits and efforts.

He was halfway through his waffle and eggs, and so engrossed in trying to make out the tinny song playing from the nearby jukebox that he failed to immediately notice his name being called out.

"William? Willy? Will! Gleesh, _pota_ , have you gone deaf?"

He jerked with a start, almost knocking his pineapple juice across the table. He quickly looked up and saw his grandmother standing right next to the table. Now in her early seventies, she looked little different from women twenty to thirty years her junior, thanks to the state of modern medicine; it was the formal, more antiquated state of her dress, along with her honey-blonde hair tied up in a crown plait that gave away her status as a member of the older generation. She favored him with a patient, good-natured smile, as he wiped his mouth, rose up from the booth to deliver an expected hug, and in return receive the expected kisses on his cheeks.

" _Naani!_ Ohai!" he said. Then with a sheepish, downcast glance added, "My bad. Just...I mean, I wasn't expecting to see you here, though I guess I should have. We were going to meet at the house in another hour, right?" He belatedly motioned for her to sit down.

"Yeah, but I thought I'd stop here first and get a cup of whatever passes for coffee these days. Maybe a quick waffle, not that they've ever been as good as…"

"I know, I know, as when _your_ grandmother worked here." He chuckled.

"So of course, as soon as I see my favorite grandson sitting here, a grandson who didn't even bother to text me the minute he got into town…"

He stuffed a couple more bites into his mouth, and muttered around his food, "Only grandson." His aunt Nadia had twin girls of her own, and he often felt like the literal odd man out at smaller family gatherings. He swallowed before continuing, "Sorz. I got impatient, spent more time in Denver than I meant to, so I decided to rent an aircar and fly here instead. Got me into town earlier than I planned, so I…" he shrugged, "...figured I'd see you soon enough. And besides, it gave me a chance to visit the park, say hi to your parents."

This elicited a warm smile from the older woman. "You're a good boy, so I suppose I'll forgive you. This time. And just look at you!" She reached over, affectionately squeezing a bicep. "Mi-gah, you've gone and made yourself so muscular. 'Hella ripped' as Daddy would say." William shifted in his seat as he felt his grandmother appraise him. She gave a little sigh and said, "You know, it's amazing. Other than the hair, and the studs down your earlobe, you look so much like Sandy at that age. I used to joke with Kamala sometimes, that her genes clearly won whatever wrestling match they got into with your other two mothers."

William snorted in bemusement. " _Mathair_ Kim's father says that I look like him. So maybe we only see what we wanna. Of course, she's the one who gave me nine-months rent-free living, so he might have a better claim."

As his grandmother laughed, his eyes drifted over towards the counter, where he noticed, much to his dismay, the pair of them were starting to draw attention.

"Uhh-naw…" he drawled, then turned back. Instinctively moving a hand up to obscure his face, he said, "Maybe we could take the food to go?"

Confused, his grandmother looked around, "What's your rush?" She leaned in and teased. "Do you owe someone money? Is there a girl chasing after you? Or a boy?"

He smiled through his grimace and shook his head, "Neg, just...people are starting to notice, and, y'know...recognize us, and…"

"And what's the prob with that? This is Arcadia Bay. Our family's ancestral home!". She held out her hands at her side, as she said the last line with a bit of dramatic flourish. "Even if _I_ personally haven't lived here in decades." She sat up straight and gave him a piercing look. "You aren't ashamed of that for some reason, are you?"

William sputtered, "Wha-? No! No, I mean...it's. Just. Ach! It's hard to explain, _naani_ …" He struggled for another moment, and said, "You grew up here, but I can count the number of times I've visited on two hands. And I probably can't remember all of them, because I was just a little kid. I'm just not….comfortable…like...I don't feel any of this belongs to me. Whatever love people in this city have for our family, none of that belongs to me. I haven't done anything to personally earn it."

Arching a brow, her grandmother tilted her chin up, and then reached out to clasp his hand in hers. "Oh, William. Always the egalitarian. You were young, adorable, and a Price-Caulfield. That would be enough for most people in the Bay. Still, I suppose it's true, our family has a surprisingly noble position here. Us and the Chases, and to a lesser degree the Prescotts and the Boyces. But Arcadia Bay was very good to _our_ family, and we to it. Our fortunes are all tied together. Fortunes, I might add which made it possible for your grandfather and I to get the best educations and make the most of our talents, which in turn allowed us to do the same for our daughters, who were able to do the same for their children." She smirked. "Even the ones who've never lived here."

William winced at her words, painfully aware of the good fortune and blessings that spread through generations of the family line, while still feeling unworthy of it.

 _I kinda sound like an asshole right now, maybe. But she has a point._

"It might help if you look at it this way: nobility comes with obligations, at least if you're doing it right. If our presence here makes anyone in town who still fondly remembers Mom and Dad happy, then who are we to cut those people off? They won't bite, you know? In a way, they're our family, too." She turned for a moment and darkly grumbled, grinding a clenched fist into her palm, "Even that damn Faith Boyce, I suppose."

"Oh gosh. Ms. Rachel, is that really you?"

William and Rachel both glanced up as a woman in her early forties approached their table. Dressed in a casual business suit, with a manager's nametag that identified her as 'Janine', her chestnut hair was tied back in a loose ponytail; her smile was warm and inviting.

William watched as his grandmother quickly rose, not hesitating to reach out and embrace the other woman. "Oh yes it is, Janine! And ohm-gee, do not even with the 'Ms'."

"It's wonderful to see you! I had no idea you were coming into town, otherwise - well - I'm sure we'd have gotten a group together, give you a proper welcome." Janine's eyes cast over towards him, and she cooed, "Oh my, is this little Will? Wow! I haven't seen you since the Senator's - her, ah...". She swallowed lightly, and continued, "Except you're not so little anymore, are you?!"

Rising up and shuffling to his feet, he raised a hand, giving as authentic a smile as he could muster, feeling terribly awkward all the while. "Hey." he said softly. "Um. Good to be back."

He froze as Janine encircled him with her arms, crushing him in a ferocious hug, as if he were a beloved and intimate family member. Turning back to his grandmother, she asked, "Is it just the two of you? Is your husband coming? Is this some sort of family reunion?"

"Will, slide over. Make room for your elders, kid." She waved him back down and to the side. "Janine, sit yourself down, and we'll tell you all about it."

He quickly shuffled over, taking his breakfast along with him. He then glanced over his shoulder, and turned back as he saw that a line of curious onlookers was slowly forming; older folks, most of them in their sixties and seventies, but there were a few people roughly his age who looked towards his table.

 _Probably wondering what the hell the big deal is._

For the next hour, William did the best to graciously hold court with his grandmother: shaking hands, answering questions, being warmly welcomed and feigning remembrance of elderly citizens he couldn't actually recall meeting as a boy.

He soon realized that it was one thing to study history, quite another to be studied _as_ history.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** So...hi!

It's been a while, huh? Well, suffice it to say, Mama Lyta has not exactly been having an easy time of it as of late. Work has gotten particularly crazy, and I suspect forever more shall it be. I've also been going through some heavy personal stuff, only part of which is related to my country's ever-spiraling descent into madness and chaos. But at least the memes are good. So yeah, inspiration has not exactly been forthcoming, even if I did have the time. It's a little difficult to write and revisit a world about a future where "everything works out in the end" when it's harder than ever to believe that's what's actually in store for the human race.

Still, it's not all bad. I spent a very lovely Julian-calendar Christmas with **NuQueerWarhead** and her family, and then traveled to Europe for the first time in years, where I got to hang with **Corentin IV.** All wonderful times well spent.

At any rate, it's almost Spring, and that tends to awaken my need to write. And perhaps a few of you blessed with long memories and attention to detail noted that in the end notes of the final chapter of Grande Dame - which was published almost a whole year ago! - I specifically mentioned how one fan, **White Story** , convinced me to consider writing something of a coda; a short sequel that would answer the question of whether Rachel ever found out about what happened in 2013, or if Chloe did indeed take that story to her grave. To be honest, I'd originally planned for the answer to be: no. Sorry. Rachel never finds the answer.

There was a certain pathos I enjoyed in the notion of that, that she comes so close, but the family mystery is forever lost. But I was eventually convinced to consider something else, but only - I made myself promise - if I could find a hook that would satisfy my desire for a bit of mystique. The story had to be better than "One day, Rachel found Max's diary, read it, and said "Oh Mom, you so crazy!".

People who know me know I am fatally infatuated with world building, so please indulge me if this opening chapter seems a little more sizzle than steak - I promise by the end of chapter 2 - which should be out in just a few days - that we will start to get to the real meat of things. Certainly, this story is more written for the fans of Grande Dame, and less for general consumption, so I thought it might be nice to take some time fleshing out details on the way to the main event. I hope you're enjoying yourself, at least. :)

This will probably be a shorty; no more than three or four chapters. Of course, I say that. I say that each and every time. Grande Dame was supposed to be a one shot, originally, and look what happened. But still, I'm really certain this time.

Last thing: A lot of folks have sent me PM's and reviews over the past few months, with very kind words. Some of them have even started writing their own stuff, and were nice enough to let me read through their initial drafts and offer feedback. So I would say go and check out **Kariego's** Not Over Yet and **Bronco27's** Flying Free, if you are looking for more Pricefield goodness in your life! I also want to give a shout-out to **minutemaidman** , who maintains an excessively comprehensive list of LiS fics on the LiS Reddit, and said nice things about me and other hard working authors on this site. It is all super-appreciated...I know I wouldn't keep on keeping on if it weren't for the fans, you know?

Anyhow, I've rambled long enough. Have a wonderful rest of the week, and see you in a few days!

P.S. Oh shit! I almost forgot. Can you believe there's actually a place in Switzerland named after Dumbledore's boyfriend? I had no idea either! :-D

 **3-16-17:** An extra tip of the hat to **White Story** , for making an observation that led to a slight tweaking in Williams initial speech in the first act. They made me realize how ultra important it was to establish a certain concept, that will come across later in this series.

 **3-17-17:** A tip of the Irish top hat to **Harpu** who confirmed what I vaguely suspected: my German sucks. :) Corrections have been applied.

 **3-20-17: *hangs head*** Oh...yea gods. While writing chapter three, I realized much to my horror and dismay that I'd been using the Hindi honorifics all wrong in this series. I've...tried to make corrections to the best of my comprehension, but I suspect that I should have done a LOT more research before attempting to flirt with this level of cultural appropriation. Guh ***headdesk***

 **4-25-17:** Apparently my German still sucks, but **Alpenwolf** taught me something new about German. A small correction has been applied in the use of the word _Kinder_


	2. Chapter 2

As the two of them walked up the path towards the old Price-Caulfield house, William's grandmother couldn't help but give a soft, satisfied sigh.

"Oh God. There is it. Home! I can't believe I haven't let myself come back in almost five years. Oh...Will?" She stopped, then turned to him, asking, "Am I doing the right thing? Is it too late to change my mind?"

"You mean donating the house to the historical society?" He laughed lightly, "Might be a little late to back out, aff? I mean, what about the whole…" He suddenly paused. Throwing back her earlier call to _noblesse oblige_ in her face seemed needlessly callow, even if it was meant only as a gentle tease. Shaking his head to dislodge the previous train of thought, he added, "You could always try to explain that you had a change of heart? Soften the blow with some extra money, and donate a bunch of the stuff in the attic, since I'm gonna catalog a ho-lotta it anyhow?" He turned back to look up at the old edifice and remarked, "On the other hand, if you were going to move back in and live here - because that's what you're thinking about, right? - then how come you haven't already, _naani_?"

Rachel nodded forlornly. "You're not wrong. When Grandpa Dave died, Dad wanted to hold onto his old house, but Mom convinced her that it was time to let some other family move in and build memories of their own. It was so hard for her at first. She helped build that place with her own two hands; it stood on the same ground as the house that _she_ grew up in. I very much sided with my mother at the time, but I didn't understand until now exactly how Daddy felt." She bit down on her bottom lip, and said, "Ever since she died, I've held onto this house, and the dream that I'd somehow convince Sandy to finally move back with me to the Bay. And I suppose he will, eventually, except…". Suddenly she turned, snorted hard in the back of her throat, as she stated with exasperation, "Did you know he's actually talking about running for a third term as Governor? I tell you Will, I love that man to death, but I'm about ready to break my goddamn boot off in his ass sometimes."

William laughed. "I always thought it was fitting: he traded Arcadia Bay for the Bay State." He then gently took his grandmother's hand and led her to the front door. "But look, you guys...you're not so old. Maybe when your parents were alive, seventies was ancient, but it's like middle age now. At most! You got plenty of years to move back and live here." He then gazed over towards the house, a soft, sharp pang hitting him in his sternum. Of all the places in the city, this was the one that produced the most genuine sense of affection and nostalgia for him. He suddenly recalled the very last Yuletide he'd ever spent here. A once-in-a-decade snowstorm dumped over a solid foot of snow on the ground, and he and his mothers actually went sledding. His great-grandfather kept joking around, saying how she'd finally get up the nerve to come join them, even though she was clearly content to merely watch and cheer from the foot of the hill.

"But you don't have to live in this house." he softly concluded.

She nodded wistfully, and more mouthed the words than spoke them. "You're right."

"Yeah! And besides, look at it this way: you can always come and visit this place whenever you want, because it'll be a public museum, and you won't have to be like those toto-creepy, embarrassing people who bother the family who live in their old home, and keep asking if they can come and peek inside and...oh. Gah-nooooo..." He noticed how his grandmother suddenly covered up her face with her hand. " _Parnaana_ _?"_

Rachel stifled a giggle. "Every year. On the same day, for a decade, she'd walk up to the old house and ask if she could walk through. And who the hell's gonna say no to Chloe Price-Caulfield? No one in Arcadia Bay, that's for damn sure."

As they approached the front step, it was hard not to notice the several crates piled by the door. William walked over, checked the e-ink labels affixed to each carton and smiled. "Ah, yus! All the gear I asked for arrived. Tote shway!"

"Looks expensive. Did you end up having to buy all this yourself?"

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Literally not even. Someone at the historical society wrote a grant proposal, and I guess someone else in D.C. still cares, because it got approved in barely a month. I mean, it's mostly just packing material to properly preserve what's survived up in the attic. Cans of argon and some other inert gasses, sealable bags and boxes, specialized chemicals and gear for cleaning moldy paper, some field analysis tools. Bunch of stuff in here that they still can't easily replicate on demand, so it costs a bit more. And - uh - oh yus! It looked like they sprung for the really high quality stuff, too. Paid extra to rush shipping. Must have been a giga-huge grant."

"Does this mean you and Octavia buried the hatchet? You know, other than in each other's backs?" Rachel inquired with a knowing smirk.

"Sure. Why not." William muttered low. "That, or she think's she's setting me up for a fall, and this will be one more strike against me. I can just envision it now," He paused, then spoke in a mocking, nasal falsetto, "Why, I gave that idiot child the best of everything and he _still_ managed to fuck everything up. If _only_ you'd let the professionals handle this from the start..."

He clenched his jaw and bristled in remembrance. When discussions between his grandmother and the ABHS first began, she'd been the one to initially suggest giving him the opportunity to earn degree credits while satisfying his familial curiosity. While Octavia Delacroix, the society head, was obsequiously pleasant to Rachel when they were meeting in person, she'd been passive-aggressively demeaning to William since the start, making it clear to him what she thought of a 'dilettante amateur abusing his family connections to muck about with the physical legacy of one of Arcadia Bay's most historically important individuals.'" At one point, it nearly turned into a shouting match over a three way video call, one that was only avoided when Rachel sternly demanded that the both of them shut the fuck up and start behaving.

 _Rest of the staff has been pretty cool though._ They _get it, want to encourage new blood, and they like the idea of a family member helping out. So dumb-as-hell that some bitch with a chip on her shoulder has it in for me, because she wanted firsties. I mean, she's probably gonna steal a bunch of the credit from me anyhow...or try to._

"But I've got the right to be here. I paid my first dues, and I'm still paying them. Not trying to jump ahead. I went through all the right channels, got the official accreditation from an approved institution, my advisor is going to be consulting with me practically every day via remote link, and looking over _all_ my work _._ Sooner or later, that woman needs to accept that I'm not some playboy douchholing around!"

"William Avinash Price-Caulfield-Bel…" Rachel began to state in a warning tone.

He quickly held out his hands in assent and interrupted her. "I'm chill. I'm ultra chill, _naani._ " he said. Even if he didn't _feel_ especially chill at the moment, he didn't relish being on the receiving end of a dressing down. He threw a toothy, boyish grin into the mix, and in an effort to quickly change topics picked up one of the boxes and said, "Here, can you get the door for me? I'll start bringing in all this stuff. And the bags from the car too."

The older woman rolled her eyes and turned to face the door. She reached out to press her palm against the biometric lock, but then paused, the light fleeing from her face.

"Are you okay?" he quietly asked.

His grandmother quickly nodded, "Fine. I'm fine, really. It's just…" She shook her head, and William could tell she felt foolish, given her body language. "I haven't been in this house - I mean, not overnight, not more than an hour or two - since Daddy died. Part of me feels like I'm - well. Disturbing a tomb." She shook her head and laughed half-heartedly. "This is silly. I'm being such a dumb-ass." She quickly pressed her hand against the plastic plate, which gave a soft, electric chirp. A second later, there was a click as the deadbolt slid back.

William leaned in and murmured. "No you're not. Gotta be a million memories tied up in this place, when you look at it. Aff? Like a hundred layers of metadata that only you can read. And now you're about to take this intimate, extra-personal part of your life - the biggest thing you have left of your childhood, your parents, and everything - and give it away. I mean sure, it's gonna be a museum and you'll be able to see it whenever you want, but it's not really going to belong to you anymore. That's - uh - toto complex, is your last chance to be in the house, and have it still be yours alone. You don't quick-process that kinda thing."

She gave him a tender kiss on the temple. "You're a good boy, Will." she murmured, then gave a soft, single laugh. "You're a good man. It sounds like we've both got work ahead of us over the next few days."

"Yeah, but it's gonna be super on-top, right? I'm looking forward to it, you should be too!"

With that, they passed through the threshold into the the house, closing the door behind them.

* * *

Even with the task of bringing in boxes and bags taking up most of his attention, William could tell there was something a bit 'off' about the house, or at least with his expectations. There was a distinct lack of any stale air or musty smell that he knew was common to old houses such as this one - built as they were without the use of modern self-cleaning meta-materials - if they weren't being actively lived in. Adding to this was the fact there was barely any dust on the furniture or flat surfaces. As if reading his mind, his grandmother remarked as he brought in the last of the bags, "Well, it's nice to see all that money I pay to the cleaning service to dust and spruce this place up every few months isn't going to waste.

She walked over to a nearby touch-sensitive panel affixed to a wall, and keyed in a numeric code. At once, the panel lit up, followed by the soft hum of power being restored to various smart devices throughout the house. A few minutes later, various bootup pings echoed down the halls, followed by a synthesized voice drifting out from the kitchen.

"I say, Madame...is that you? Senator? Hello? Is anyone there? I appear to be having difficulties with my sensor grid; it seems there's several years worth of firmware updates I'm suddenly working through. Hello? I realize we left things on an unpleasant note at breakfast time, but it's hardly fitting for you to shut me down over th-" The voice suddenly transformed into a flat, dull monotone. "STANDBY. CORRECTING FRAGMENTATION ERRORS. PERFORMING UPDATES. STANDBY."

Rachel sighed. "Maybe I should have paid the extra fee for periodic smart-house upkeep and maintenance. I never bothered because I always planned to have the entire system wiped and rebuilt when I moved in." She blinked, and then held up a finger to her lips, quietly adding, "Don't tell the house I said that when it wakes back up!"

William tried to do his best not to laugh. It never failed to amuse him how much people in the older generation distrusted or were otherwise a bit paranoid of virtual intelligence and its application in smart-house tech. William spent his entire life inside a state-of-the-art example of the technology, and never had any issues. Besides, it'd been well over fifteen years since a house harmed or otherwise turned against its owners, and that was due to glitches in the first generation systems that were impossible to reproduce with modern revisions.

As bad as his grandmother might be, his great-grandfather was supposedly three times worse.

It was twenty minutes before the house's central computer finally rebooted. In the interim, William wasted no time, immediately unpacking and inventorying the gear that had been sent to him, eager to get to work in the attic. His grandmother regaled him with a few stories of time spent growing up in Arcadia Bay; he didn't have the heart to remind her that he'd already heard most of them before.

The kitchen called out again, "Ah, that's better, I can finally see again! Is that you in the living room, Miss Rachel? And young William as well? At least, that's what his web-link tells me. According to my logs, it's been quite some time since last we spoke! How are you? Family well? Would you like me to make you anything? I'm afraid my stocks appear to be embarrassingly empty at present, but I could easily send a message to the supermarket, and have them deliver a few basics. At least get the food printer up and running, if nothing else?

William involuntarily screwed his face up into one of displeasure; he might have grown up a child of the late 21st century, but he was most definitely not a fan of what passed for 'food' from any but the most advanced replicators. His Mama 'Lana was the professional chef in the family - the kind of woman who took personal offense at the use of such 'shortcuts' - and almost all of his meals eaten at home growing up were hand prepared as a result.

"That'd be fine, yes. Thank you." his grandmother replied. "Oh! Actually, why don't you hold off; I'll make a full list. We'll be here a few days, and it would be nice to have a few home cooked meals." She looked meaningfully at him. "Together."

"Splendid!" the kitchen responded. It then needlessly cleared it's 'throat', and asked. "And if I might be as bold to ask...ah. How shall I put this delicately? It's apparently been some time since Madame's passing, and here we are, reactivated. Understand, I'm asking primarily for the bedroom and the study, they're such a nervous lot but - er - is the house being prepared for sale?" There was a note of optimism in the synthetic voice; virtual intelligences had a hardcoded need to feel useful, if nothing else.

"In a manner of speaking!" Rachel brightly replied. "The house is being donated to the city's historical society, and they're turning it into a museum. They're gonna send a technician over in a few days in order to make a few adjustments, but you memory core will be largely preserved. After all, you're part of living history now!"

"Ooooooh? A museum? With visitors and…? Oh yes! I'll have more than a few tales to spin about my epic struggles with getting your father to eat the most nutrition breakfasts allowed by law!" William at first thought the kitchen was being sarcastic, before quickly realizing…

… _.no. Poor thing is_ seriously _hot-jazzed about being part of the attraction. Well, whatever makes it happy._

"Hey, _naani._ Gonna head up to the attic and maybe work on a box or two of stuff, yeah?" He was eager to get to it, and anywhere had to be better than here, listening to some obsolete home appliance yammering on; he knew his great-grandfather wasn't terribly fond of the system either, and now he he could understand why.

 _The new-gen models are way less obsequious._

"Hmmm? Oh, sure! I know better than to try to keep you away any longer from the attic. Let me know if you find anything good, and...hmm. I suppose dinner will be late tonight. Enjoy!" Rachel waved and then busied herself with settling in.

* * *

Despite the clean, almost sterile environment of the living room, the attic smelled just the way one should: musty and filled with sleeping memories. It felt far more 'real', the air heavy with the weight of a history waiting to be uncovered, witnessed, and made alive again, if just for a few minutes in someone else's imagination. Despite his eagerness, he paced himself, laying out his gear in a neat and orderly fashion, putting on a pair of disposable coveralls, nitrile gloves, and a facemask. It was probably more than the situation required, but he wasn't going to leave anything to chance, especially with the head of the historical society - not to mention his academic advisor - evaluating his every decision.

The ancient LED bulbs struggled to come to full radiance, casting smeared shadows on and lending a surreal air to the otherwise unremarkable grey walls, sloped ceiling and slate floor. One corner held larger, more valuable items that were previously cataloged, wrapped in preserving vinyl, and tagged as part of the estate evaluation immediately after his great-grandfather's death. But of course, he wasn't interested in any of that. Instead, his attention immediately latched hungrily onto the rows and rows of boxes stacked in surprisingly neat, six foot tall 'walls' on the other side of the room.

Most of the containers were made of nonreactive hard shell plastics, or the corrugated bioplastic that came into widespread use over the past thirty years. He meandered through the rows, feeling like someone lost in a small library, trying to make their minds up where to begin. That's when he spotted a collection of boxes, one he almost overlooked, in the darkest corner. Boxes made of a stained, faded material he wasn't immediately familiar with. He knelt down and tentatively stroked his fingertips over it.

 _Ohm-gee. Is this...is this cardboard? Wow._

It wasn't like William had never seen cardboard before, but given the cheapness and ease of production of reinforced cellulose plastics - rated to last for a century, yet still compost easily in the right conditions - wood pulp storage containers were a rarity in this day and age. Definitely, there was something about the smell that he enjoyed. It reminded him of old books and broadsides, in any number of collections he'd visited as part of his academic work. Smiling eagerly to himself, he leaned in closer, trying to make out the faded ink letters on the side.

 **CHLO 'S O D RO M J NK**

William swallowed, then licked his lips. It was easy enough to fill in the gaps. Certainly, given the age of the box, it wasn't hard to imagine that the contents went as far back as his great-grandfather's young adulthood. Maybe even pre-dating the destruction of the old Arcadia Bay.

 _Oh. Yeah. This has gotta be the_ good _stuff! The oldest. And hey, might as well start from the beginning and work my way up, yeah?_

With practiced care, he held his breath and pulled back the dusty, brittle flaps, surprised at how well they were holding up after almost seventy-five years or longer. He reached in without looking, content to let fate decide what his first assignment would be. His hand quickly clasped something; it felt like a toy or figurine. He pulled it out, mentally signaled the logging function built into his web-link and got to work.

"Uh. Entry one, collection one, assumed to be a miscellaneous assortment of physical items belonging to Senator Chloe Price-Caulfield, possibly dating back to the early 21st Century, or even the very late 20th." He blinked his eyes, mentally willing his lens implants to capture a few digital images for the database entry he was building. "Appears to be a figurine of some sort of novelty character? Body of the figurine is mostly brown in color, roughly 20 centimeters in length, not including limbs, oblong in shape, with round, oversized eyes. It appears to be - uh." He paused, consulting a few reference sites online. "...composed of acrylonitrile butadiene styrene, a common injection-molding material for the time period, with white elongated legs and arms made out of polyvinyl chloride. Object is in surprisingly good shape, although it's obvious the color has faded significantly on parts." At least, it was clear to him that the dull, sickly white stripe on it's front was no doubt a much more vibrant yellow back in the day.

He ran a reverse image search across the Internet, and discovered…

 _What the hell is a Hawt Dawg Man?_

His neural link obliged with a quick wiki abstract, the text overlaying his field of vision:

 _ **Hawt Dawg Man**_ _: A popular character created by Belvana Studios in 2006. Experienced intense but short-lived popularity, especially in the Pacific Northwest, over a period of six to eight years. Featured on t-shirts, lunch boxes, figurines, video games, television cartoons, etc. Achieved brief nostalgia popularity during a 2023 reboot, but the character has since been otherwise forgotten._

He quickly attached a link to the full entry for further study later. He stared quizzically at the item for a while, before carefully placing it into a self-sealing vacuum bag, and then laughed softly. He had his own collection of strange characters, based on any number of seemingly random memes, cleverly calculated to confound the adults who didn't 'get it'. The materials and the subjects might be different, but he took no small amount of enjoyment at the discover that little had changed in that regard in the last century.

He was much more familiar with the next item: even after a hundred and fifty years, people still knew who Wonder Woman was - hell, she might as well be a permanent icon of modern society at this point, ever fated to have her story told and retold through the ages. But he'd never seen a version of her like this one. It was an highly detailed figurine set attached to a base. Diana was dressed in biker gear, featuring a midriff-baring red leather jacket, while leaning against a motorcycle that would not look all that out of place on the streets of Seattle today. At the time, it was no doubt meant to appear exotic, even futuristic. He was able to easily date the item to an original 2017 production run, and marveled at how well the color held over the decades.

 _Guess this thing was supposed to be kinda expensive back in the day._

He reached in deeper for a third item, fingers brushing over something smooth and curved. It felt like glass to his touch. He pulled it out, and once again started dictating his entry.

"One snow globe, in surprisingly good condition. Roughly ten centimeters in diameter, appears to be of local manufacture, depicting Lighthouse Point in Arcadia Bay. If I had to guess it's probably...about…"

His train of thought petered out, as his gaze was captured by the plastic lighthouse locked inside the mixture of water and glycol, still intact after all these decades. He tried to gather his focus and continue on with his dictation but his train of thought kept slipping away. There was something insistently familiar about the item. But he couldn't figure out what.

Unintentionally, his grip loosened. He didn't realize the dome was falling until a split second too late. Absolute panic gripped his heart, and if he didn't know better, he could have sworn that time itself slowed down while the rest of him sped up. He managed to catch the item safely, a half-moment before it could strike the ground...but every rational aspect in his mind kept screaming that there's no way he should have been able to do so.

 _Adrenaline. Gotta be it. Flight or fight, thank you very much! Makes us see the world so differently. But Ohm-gee! Fuck fuck fuck! That was so close! If I broke anything, let alone something fragile like this on my first day, I might as well be washed out of the entire history program!_

As relief washed over him, he studied the globe intently…

...and then it appeared to give a pale, ghostly pulse that spread like a rippling wave through the fabric of reality.

His vision whited out...

 _...she reaches up and above, fingers brushing over a box as she curiously hunts on a whim for clues about her friend. The one she….the one she left behind. Five years ago. She tries not to think about it, about the yawning chasm that separates them still - and yet it's as if no time has passed at all._

 _In her distracted state, the box tilts over. She tries to catch the contents inside, but comes up short. There is a sharp_ _ **crack**_ _, as glass shards scatter across the floor. A soapy, wet wave spreads over her shoes._

 _A sarcastic voice calls out, "Dude, you broke my glass snow dome. Thanks."_

Wait, did she say dome...or doe?

 _Shame flushes her cheeks. Whatever else she was looking for, it's not worth it. Not this. Not another angry rift, when whatever is being rebuilt between them is fragile, just as fragile as the now former globe._

 _She takes it back. She takes it all back. The pieces start to rewind themselves into their former configuration. Everything pulls back in reverse..._

William gasped, falling back on his heels from his kneeling position. His hand still tightly clutched the item he was evaluating. He'd just heard a voice, gotten some sort of - what? An impression? A vision? Hard to describe it, but it was now slipping away. Like the last moments of a dream evaporating in the morning sun.

"Hello?" he called out, feeling immediately foolish for having done so. "Is anyone out...there?"

He _knew_ he heard a voice. Someone accusing him of something.

 _Of breaking this snow dome._

But it was fine. Completely!

Still, he couldn't resist. He stared hard at it, directing his lens implants to increase to maximum magnification. But no! The surface was effectively flawless. No sign at all that it'd ever been broken, then repaired.

William took several large breaths, wishing his heart would stop beating so quickly. He turned his face away, unable to continuing looking at the knick-kack, suddenly unwilling to trust himself with it. He placed it oh-so-carefully down on the floor and started to talk out loud.

"Kay-o, Will. This is just jet lag. Jet lag, and nerves, after you almost fucked up super-huge. Nothing more than that. Still on New York time, barely got over the difference from Switzerland before you started moving over to Oregon. Yeah."

He nodded to himself. It sounded reasonable, right? Logical. He was overtired. It was making him sloppy. It'd been a long day, an early morning. His fucking nerves were playing tricks on him after his close brush with disaster. He was so nervous about making such a good impression that…

 _...oh shit! That's it. Duryeh! I'm so nervous about not giving Delacroix any reason to bash on me, on what I'm doing, that I'm freaking out with the most fragile thing I found so far. An old snow globe._ Her _old snow globe. Great-grandfathers. And before that,_ her _father's. It belong to him, and…_

"Wait. Wait a second." he spoke to the still air. "How did I know that?"

He was certain that was the truth, but didn't know why. Except…

"...except it's obvious. So old. That thing is ancient. Mega-tique. Makes sense she got it from him."

 _But how do you know? It could have easily been her mother's. Right?_

But William knew that wasn't the case. He was certain of it. Instinctively. He knew, by whatever unknown method, that this globe once belonged to his namesake.

With one last breath, he did his best to banish the chills the whole situation gave him. Deciding it was best to keep on, and that focusing on his work would put whatever lingering strangeness remained out of his mind, he peered into the box, his eyes alighting on an old notebook. Almost as if they'd been magnetically drawn to it.

It was nice. Good quality for the time, with a brown, rounded cardboard cover, most of which was covered with a large array of assorted decals. There was a red, white and blue striped pole at the top, like the kind some barbers still displayed outside their shops. There was also a decal of a camera, some animals, a picture of a building he recognized as the Seattle Space Needle, along with a sticker bearing the phrase 'Be curious, not judgemental.'

But it was the title plaque on the front that seized his attention:

 **PROPERTY OF MAX CAULFIELD  
** **2013  
** **STAY OUT! (THIS MEANS YOU)**

It was a journal. More important than that, it was _her_ journal. His great-grandmother's! And best of all it was apparently from a time in her life where - assuming he remembered correctly - she was roughly his age.

"Goddess above!" he murmured under his breath with glee. He held it reverently in flattened, gloved palms, giving a giddy little laugh at his discovery.

 _Barely started and I've already hit the jackpot!_

From disaster to triumph, in barely a minute's time!

He paused for a moment. It struck him as strange that this was still here, something so personal and precious. He was certain that his grandmother would have claimed it as her own when she went through the estate possessions ten years ago.

 _Unless she never knew it was here. Or didn't even know about it, period. But that doesn't make any sense. Does it?_

He swallowed and started a new entry in his internal catalog:

"One journal. Mahogany in color." He paused, consulting his mental weblink for appropriate info, before continuing, "Appears to be a Moleskine Classic, a common, mass-manufactured brand in the early twentieth-first century. Item is listed as belonging to Maxine Price-Caulfield, dated two-thousand thirteen. Condition is…"

He paused at this, as he opened up the cover with terribly precise care, and flipped through the pages.

The pristine, white pages.

 _What!? That's not possible!_

It wasn't that they were blank: quite the opposite, the pages themselves were filled with her familiar, stylized calligraphic handwriting, replete with hand-drawn art and curious catchphrases in the margins; he'd barely begun to look through the contents, and already he could tell that this journal offered a deeply intimate view into his great-grandmother's secret thoughts. His brief research told him that the paper should he acid-free, and that would certainly help stave off the ravages of aging, but he found it impossible to believe that there were no signs of deterioration whatsoever; no warping of the cardboard cover, no peeling of the stickers, no fading of the ink. Nothing!

But here it sat in his hands, looking very much unperturbed by the passage of time. As fresh and as crisp as the day pen was put to its pages. It was almost as if the book existed in its own unique bubble, unchanging and forever enduring. Disconnected from and unaffected by the eternal laws of entropy.

But this was, of course, impossible.

He ran his thumb up and down the outer spine; it produced a deep thrumming inside him, like listening to a low note being held on a bass cello. In the back of his mind, he could almost hear...something. Like whispered conversation, barely made out, just as one's falling asleep. A tiny, twisted cacophony, more imagined than heard.

" _Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes…"_

" _...let's get down to bidness..."_

" _Kate! Take my hand. Please!"_

" _Max, there was no eclipse scheduled today. I would have know, I would."_

" _...for instance, I dare you to kiss me."_

" _...always take the shot."  
_

" _And Max Caulfield? Don't you forget about me!"_

" _My fault. Mine. All dead. Because of me! BECAUSE OF…"_

He inhaled sharply, breaking himself out of whatever revere was fogging his brain. He blinked, as if awaking from a drunken daze, and quickly took stock of his situation.

 _William, listen to me, because I know you better than anyone else. This is toto cray! Perfectly fine glass snow domes that I'm convinced got broken and put back together. A journal that somehow_ looks _like it never aged, but should be cracked and faded by now - in tatters, really!. There's got to be an explanation for it. An obvious one. Something proper, something logical, like I need a nap. Or I just outta step away for a while. Hang out with_ naani _, have dinner, get a good night's sleep. Yeah. That's good. Yeah! I'll stop what I'm doing right now. Then I'll come back here, fresh in the morning, and everything will make sense._

It was a good plan. Definitely something he should do. Just put everything back in the box, and head downstairs.

Instead, he opened the journal to the first page and started reading.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Hey guys!

First off, so many thank yous to everyone who have responded positively to the start of this series. I greatly appreciate it! *gives everyone big hugs!*

The good news is, hey! Here's a second chapter, out quick. The bad news is that between my busy life schedule and being sick (that seems to happen a lot to me) I haven't had a chance to start on chapter three yet. But I know roughly where I want to go with it, and I've got a good bit of momentum to push me forward, so hopefully it'll just be a couple weeks. I have to do a bunch of video reviewing and research to make sure I get things right though, so that will slow the writing up.

Speaking of research, this is where verisimilitude (Lyta's favorite word) becomes a potential issue. I honestly have no idea if I got any details right, or if everything was terribly wrong, with regards to William trying to catalog and preserve things. I just did some very quick research on some obvious points; honestly, if I was getting paid and this was my professional job, I'd probably spend hours researching the topic, but I don't and I can't. So my apologies if someone out there is an honest to god archivist and winced like crazy as they read this.

(Fun fact: Lyta got her masters degree in Information Science. She worked alongside people training to be archivists, but never took those kind of courses herself)

Finally, I have a shoutout I need to give. Earlier tonight, I read an absolutely marvelous story called **On The Way** by **KuroRiya**. It is an extremely heart-touching AU tale of Max and Chloe falling in love. The twist? Chloe was born Cole, and didn't start transitioning until Max left Arcadia Bay. Obviously, this is a subject near and dear to my heart, but on its own merits, it's a great story, definitely worth taking a look at! It also looks like she wrote a story somewhat in the vein of Black Swan; I haven't read it yet, but if you liked that, check it out and let me know what you think.

Anyhow, have a great week everyone!

 **3-20-17:** As I mentioned in Chapter 1, I discovered I'd been screwing up with the use of the Hindi honorifics. I THINK I have it right, or at least vaguely closer to right, but again, Lyta shan't try such a complicated trick in the future without a lot more research.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N:_ _So real quick, I discovered while writing this chapter that I had been totally screwing up the use of the somewhat complex Hindi honorifics I was utilizing through this series. I think I got it right in Grande Dame (Naana actually means father-of-my-mother and Naani mother-of-my-mother) but was going terribly wrong in this one. I went back and changed it in the previous two chapters, but I wanted to warn current readers, just in case it got super confusing._

 _(And Lyta learns an important lesson about attempted cultural appropriation without super-duper research and attention to detail)_

* * *

 _July 10, 2013_

 _I GOT ACCEPTED INTO BLACKWELL ACADEMY!_

William chuckled lightly to himself as he read through the journal from the beginning. His smile grew slowly, like fingers of sunlight creeping over horizon; he couldn't help but empathize with Max's excitement and relief at having made it into Blackwell. He was similarly elated when the Doctorow Institute accepted his application two years earlier.

He felt a sense of peaceful normality settle across his mind, like a cleansing mist falling from the sky on a crisp autumn afternoon, chasing away the unease from a few minutes earlier. He reached out, tracing his fingers over the stickers and pictures that held court in the margins of the journal, framing his great-grandmother's innermost thoughts, worries, and desires. All the while, he still intentionally ignored the fact that the journal - and everything in it - was impossibly fresh.

 _...to study under Mark Jefferson. SIGH. Insert hearts and flowers._

He swallowed at this, wishing he could somehow reach back through the yawning chasm of the years and warn Max. She'd find out soon enough why Mark Jefferson was still a name that lived in infamy to this day, alongside the likes of other murderers, such as Lizzy Bordon, Jeffrey Dahmer and Kal Broadchurch.

 _I never really found a groove with my classmates (Or boys.)_

He laughed at this. "Oh. You're gonna find out why soon enough."

 _Wait...who am I talking to? The journal? Or more...acting like I'm actually holding a conversation with my long dead great-grandmother?_

Yes. Yes he was.

Fuck it, he was enjoying himself all the same.

He settled in, devouring every gloriously mundane word over the next eight or nine pages. There was something so satisfying, so reassuring, in seeing his own issues, his own doubts, triumphs and unease mirrored in these pages, despite the long stretch of years that separated the time periods.

He let out another sigh, the jittery nerves and uneasy dread of before now fully purged from his mind…

...until he came across October 7th.

In large black lettering, a pair of stickers read:

 _ **THIS DOES NOT EXIST**_

" _October 7th_

 _This will be the weirdest journal entry I will ever make. So weird I don't know how or where to start. But it started with the most vivid dream of my life. I was lost in a storm by the lighthouse until I came to the edge of the cliff. Then I saw a giant tornado headed for Arcadia Bay. It was so real, I could feel the rain stinging my face. And I was scared shitless."_

William suddenly closed the journal, his hands working of their own accord, as if by instinct. The covers came together, making a loud clapping noise as he looked away. A cold finger of dread ran up and down his spine.

 _What the literal fucking hell? Why did I just do that?_

It was as if his body had worked independently of his mind; he was absolutely flummoxed, unable to understand - at first- what triggered such a visceral reaction. Another second or two passed, before a word flittered across his consciousness.

 _Tornado._

Yes. _Parnaani_ mentioned a tornado. In a dream.

In October.

In 2013.

"Ohm-gee." he whispered out, running an Internet query across his web-link.

 **DATE OF MEGASTORM AZRAEL ARCADIA BAY**

The text scrolled across his vision in response:

 _ **Megastorm Azrael, the first recorded EF6 tornado in history, laid waste to the town of Arcadia Bay, Oregon, USA, on Friday October 11th, 2013...**_

Just as instinctively, he pulled the journal back open, chastising himself a moment too late at how roughly he was now handling the precious object.

 _NO way! How could she...there's no way, toto-null, she could have had such an obvious nightmare about...it has to be a coincidence!_

He read the journal entry again from the beginning. There was a mystery here, and he'd be damned if he didn't get to the bottom of it! As he read the words a second time, he swore he could almost hear the distant roar of whipping wind behind him, feel the sting of driving rain against his face as she had hers.

But then again, he'd always had an active imagination.

He ignored the increasing strangeness of the situation, but his frustration surged as he found the words before him becoming increasingly blurry and indistinct. He signaled his lens implants to compensate, and instead received an internal tone, indicating that his reading vision at present was perfectly fine.

He should have stopped right then and there; listened to the instincts screaming at him from the long, narrow tunnel, down the back of his mind. A tunnel that grew darker and more distant in short order...

 _...she needs a time out in the bathroom. Splash water on her face. Make sure she doesn't look like a total loser._

" _God. How embarrassing. I should have known that answer. I did, the other day! Just another chance for Ms. Perfect to twist the knife..."_

 _She sighs and hugs herself. The nightmare was already fading from her mind... barely. It was probably just nerves. Anxiety. All her worries and fears, because Blackwell was...it was….understand, it wasn't like she regretted coming here, but the bloom was definitely off the rose. It was a lot of fucking hard work. And mean, stupid people. And on top of everything else, she still didn't have a picture to hand in for Mr. Jefferson's Everyday Heroes contest. What if she let him down? Hell, if she couldn't follow through on this, she might as well just totally give up on ever being a professional photographer._

 _She pauses for a minute, reaching in and pulling out her music player, fitting the earbuds in tightly, desperate to shut out the rest of the world. Calmness descends as she's enveloped in the gentle strains of an acoustic guitar, and Syd Matters starts singing "To All Of You". She mopes her way towards the bathroom, pausing to casually glance at a few posters - tryouts for the swim team, the D &D club, those missing girl posters that started popping up everywhere, out of the blue..._

 _The bathroom door further isolates her from the rest of the world as it closes behind her._

" _Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me."_

 _It was shaping up to be a bad day. Like the universe was taunting her, no matter where she went. Chasing her down from her bad dreams, into reality. A day like today, she feels she's almost going crazy._

She washes her face with handfuls of water from the sink. It helps ground her, bring her back to the present. Clears her vision as well as her skin. She then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a photo, the one she nearly found the courage to hand in today.

" _Just relax. Stop torturing yourself. You have 'a gift'."_

 _Yeah. Right. Bullshit._

" _Fuck it."_

 _She rips the picture in two and carelessly tosses yet another of her failures onto the cold, wet tiles._

 _A second later, she can sense something in the corner of the bathroom. Soft, fluttering. A shift in the air, but almost musical._

 _Then she sees the butterfly._

 _In here?_

" _When a door closes, a window opens. Or...something like that."_

Entranced, she follows along after it, to where it quickly lands on a steel pail. A spark, a pulse, a creative need suddenly strikes her, that tingling at the back of her brain.

 _The Instinct._

 _It wasn't Everyday Heroes material but that didn't stop her; she knew when to take the shot. Her camera comes out. She lines it up, presses the button, feels more than thinks her way through. The flash goes off. One blue morpho is committed to physical memory. Dyes and reagents work their chemical magic between layers of polymer, and soon she's rewarded with royal blues, steely grays, and crisp, bold blacks._

 _She smiles, ever so faintly, at the result. Nearly ready to step back out and face the world again._

 _The door opens. Closes. Heavy footfalls make their way further into the bathroom. Too heavy. She knows instinctively that something is wrong with they way they sound. Before she can step out, she hears the voice._

" _It's cool, Nathan. Don't stress. You're okay, bro. Just count to three…"_

 _Nathan Prescott? What the hell is he doing here? In the_ girls _room?! Rambling to himself, acting like a wounded fox, one girding itself before finally turning against the hounds chasing it down. Then a girl steps in, blue hair, skater beanie. Definitely not a student she's seen in school before. She doesn't get many more details, having to pull back before she's spotted._

" _I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step ass would say. Now, let's talk bidness…"_

 _She doesn't understand what's going on at first, but it soon becomes apparent punk girl is shaking Nathan down for money. Making it clear that she'll ruin him if he doesn't give her everything she wants. But the tide shifts in an deadly instant; she can't see what's going on yet, but she can hear it in the tone of their voices. Then she hears the clack of metal. The rising note of fear in punk-girl's voice. She finally dares to look around the corner._

Nathan Prescott has a gun pressed against the other girl's stomach.

" _Get that gun away from me, psycho!"  
_

 _She knows, too late, what's about to go down. She steps out, reaching instinctively towards them both, as muzzleflash briefly fills her vision, and the roar of a subsonic explosion fills the air._

 _Everything starts….to…...slow…...down…_

… _.then rewinds._

" _Whoa!"_

 _She's back. Back in the classroom again. She barely gets her wits together before she realizes she's already heard this lecture once before. That everything is playing out exactly the way she remembers it, a scant handful of minutes earlier._

 _At least she remembers to answer Mr. Jefferson's question correctly this time._

* * *

"I knew the only way to find out if I was having a breakdown was to go back to the bathroom and see if I could save that girl from Nathan this time." William droned, before gasping sharply, as if emerging from a deep trance.

He stopped. With slow, mechanical precision, he placed the journal on top of the box, turned away, and started to laugh; low, maniacal, on the razor's edge of sanity.

"This is...this is...oh Godohgodohgoddess above!"

He felt sick. He felt giddy. Terrible and joyous. He feared he was going to throw up, never so grateful before to be surrounded by airtight bags. But the waves of nausea soon abated, as he somehow found the wherewithal to ride out the worst of the visceral reactions to what he'd just experienced.

Still, he was panting, trembling, on hands and knees, staring down at the floor. He had no idea what to make of his experience.

 _It was - real. So reall! I mean, it wasn't even like I was a passenger witnessing what was going on, I_ was _her!_

His identity was completely and utterly subsumed while in the vision. He could still remember what it felt like to be Max Caulfield: the emotional colors of her mind, the lightweight feel of her body, the thousand-and-one unconscious ways she behaved and interacted with the world around her. It was a level of personal intimacy with another human being that he had difficulty believing anyone else in history had previously experienced.

It very much disturbed and enthralled him.

Was he going insane? Whatever it was, this was the product of more than mere jet lag. He couldn't delude himself any further about what was going on.

 _Oh fuck! The upgrade I had them do to my web-link a couple months ago. Could that be it? Did something go wrong? I mean, that clinic was supposed to be the best in Europe…!_

Nothing was impossible, but that seemed highly unlikely. Modern consumer web-links were still nothing more than clever little tricks of crude neural interface circuits and augmented reality overlays; full sensory override was impossible. Oh, the effect could be achieved these days, but that took seriously invasive external interfaces rigged into heavy pods filled with quantum computing gear. None of it was beyond the human trials stage at present.

In his desperate panic, he began subconsciously sending search terms out through the Internet…

 **SYMPTOMS MEMORIES DELUSION ATTACHMENT READING OBJECTS REALITY**

...not realizing what he'd done until the search result cloud surrounded the periphery of his vision.

The brightest result in the cloud flashed up the word **schizophrenia** , and his blood turned to ice in his veins, breath catching in his throat. He grabbed for a bag again, certain that this was the moment he was finally going to bring up breakfast. Instead, he shifted tracks at the last minute, breathing in and out of it, until the lower oxygen content calmed his nerves and took the edge off his hyperventilating fit.

"Okay. Will. Ultra-chill time, man. I'm talking orbital here. It's...that's impossible. It just doesn't - it doesn't happen. Not anymore."

Especially not in his case; the genetic engineering lab that custom crafted the chimerical zygote that eventually became his embryo took multiple full-genome sequences over the full nine months of gestation, standing on guard for any abnormalities in his DNA, and ready to deploy tailored retroviruses to resolve all problems encountered. On the day he was born, another genomic workup was done, and then repeated every year of his life as part of his yearly checkup. In the 22nd century, that sort of revolutionary personalized medicine was now standard practice. As a result, most gene-based syndromes were a thing of a the past, including and especially schizophrenia.

"Okay. Right. Right...but what if...what if this is something new...something…"

For lack of any better ideas, he sat up, cross-legged, and spent the next half hour evaluating himself. He ran several applications that tied directly into the health monitoring sub-systems embedded in his web-link; except the completely obvious elevated heart rate and neural activity, nothing else was amiss. Three diagnostics in a row on his link came back perfectly clean.

That was when he realized that he'd left his web-link in full recording mode while he was reading through the journal; he wasn't expecting to have somehow captured his experiences technologically, but was disappointed all the same when he found he hadn't. According to the playback, the only thing that happened was him reading along and then simply... zoning out. For thirty seconds or so, it was as if he was in a trance, mumbling to himself.

Casting a wary glance at the journal, he tentatively reached out a hand, steeling himself, as if he might be burned or bit. Another minute passed before he could force himself to open the covers again and read through the October 7th entry. As before, he could sense a blurriness trying to overtake his vision, but with practiced focus and slow, mindful breathing, he found he could eventually 'avoid' slipping back into the same state as before. Gaining this bit of control over whatever phenomenon was occurring bolstered his self-confidence, and he carefully scanned through the entire entry anew.

He gave a laugh to himself, one that almost turned into a sob of relief, grounding himself in the completely mundane words floating above the all-consuming visions buried - somehow - deeply inside the pages, as he read on. He smiled and shook his head as he read Max's complaints and distrust of the man who would eventually become her father-in-law, along with her fear about coming clean with the Principal, owing in at least no small part to the fact that a Prescott was involved in a shooting incident that no longer existed.

He knew the Prescotts used to be corrupt and quite powerful a hundred years ago; Nathan's role in the so-called Blackwell Murders, as well as his father's cowardly abandonment of Arcadia Bay after its destruction, was a shame their descendants were only just finally living down at long last.

" _So my school day started with an apocalyptic dream, then ended with saving a life and discovering I have some kind of power to rewind time. I don't know how to top that."_

He slowly lay back, placing the journal carefully on his chest, and sprawled out on the floor as he stared up at the ceiling.

He didn't want to believe it. Any of it.

And yet…

...he desperately wanted to embrace it all, like a child who discovers their faith for the first time.

A family history involving some previously undiagnosed genetic neurological disorder _still_ made the most sense, but Max Price-Caulfield lived a long and eventful life; she was a celebrated photographer, teacher, mother, and wife. By all accounts, her ninety years on this planet were completely bereft of any signs that she suffered from ongoing delusions.

 _Clearly, Naani would know more. I mean, hell, I should show her the journal. She_ needs _to see it, it's only right, but…_

He now felt such a kinship with his great-grandmother, despite their never having met in life. There was a bright, blazing beacon in his mind, one that excitedly whispered 'Yes! Yes!' to him, over and over. The answer was there; it was so obvious and made so much sense, if only he was willing to step across the threshold and accept it.

His great-grandmother did indeed have a gift. Something marvelous and beyond imagining. A gift that allowed her to save lives, a gift that…

 _...OHMFUCKINGEEzus! That was Parnaana!_

The memory came to him in a flash. He felt like a complete gibbering moron for not having made the connection much sooner.

 _The punk-girl in the bathroom That was her!_

Max may not have recognized her old friend and future wife at that particular point in time - and it made some sense as to why, when he paused to think about it: five years apart, people change, especially when they're teenagers. But he sure as hell recalled seeing any number of pictures, from any number of official historical sources and family photo albums, of Chloe Price-Caulfield in her youth.

Max had saved the future love of her life from certain death, and not even realized it. At least, not when it was happening.

 _So what does this mean? Well okay, I think I know exactly what I would_ like _for it to mean. That somehow, I've inherited this gift. Or something like it. Oh! Can I….maybe?_

He reached out a hand, in the exact way he recalled her doing in the bathroom. Tried to rewind time, and failed spectacularly.

 _Maybe it works different for males. Maybe that comes later. Or never at all?_

But what could he call his experience? It had to have a name, a descriptor?

 _You know, other than stark raving cray-cray super-ultra fucking insanity: part two._

That was when he noticed his search result cloud was still buzzing around the outer frame of his vision. He mentally dug through several entries until he chanced upon a word he couldn't recall encountering before, but almost thrummed in his head when he saw it.

 **Psychometry**

"Well, I'm definitely psycho…" he giggled lamely, and then expanded the results to a more detailed view.

 **Psychometry, noun.  
origin: 1850-1855.  
** **def: the alleged art or faculty of divining facts concerning  
an object or a person associated with it, by contact with or proximity to said object.**

He blinked a few times…

 _...divining facts. Yeah...yeah. That's putting it toto mild._

But he was ready to accept it at face value.

Why?

Because why not.

 _Because she did. She wound backwards through time! And I know, I_ know _it's real, because I saw it. I was there, I_ was her _. And did she freak out and agonize that she was going mad and let it paralyze her with fear?_

Now truth be told, it was quite possible that was exactly what happened behind the scenes. That she had a complete and utter hysterical fit that lasted hours, before finally writing everything down. But it was more likely that in short order, Max simply accepted what occurred, and moved forward.

 _Well, better take after her then. I'm this far down the rabbit hole, yeah? Either I put the brakes on this whole endeavor, turn away and never try anything like this again, or I take it all the way, full speed and see what's there. Down at the bottom._

His mind reeled at the possibilities. There were so many mysteries bound up in this journal, and not just what happened with his great-grandmother. There was the storm itself; if he recalled correctly, there were maybe two people left alive today who personally witnessed it, and they'd been small children at the time. And if Max dreamt of the tornado days before it happened…

 _Maybe she could_ see _into the future too! But she didn't make the connection until it was too late. But...if she had all these amazing powers, why did she settle down and have such a normal-ish life? She could have had wealth, power, adventure...could have literally changed the course of history!_

There had to be so much more to her story!

And then there was the matter of his own power, so fresh and newly discovered. How much could he do with it? Would it work on anything, or only items Max had directly interacted with in the past? It didn't take him long to put two and two together, if he could now 'read' _any_ object he encountered...

 _I would be truly epic! A historian who could 'read; memories encoded in an object. The lost historical knowledge I could recover! Or being able to discern the difference between forgeries and authentic stuff, beyond a doubt!_

He suddenly gripped at his head and fought the urge to rock side to side. He was quickly overwhelmed. All of it, together, it was so much more than he could handle at present. The different directions his mind was pulling him in. The near-infinite possibilities.

He needed to pick a direction, something narrow in scope. See it through to the end. Then figure out where to go from there. And then the next day, and the next day after that.

The most immediate direction was obvious.

 _I have to read the rest of this journal._

A piece of him shuddered at the notion, absolutely convinced he'd turn into a mad, babbling wreck by the end of it. But another part, one growing in confidence by the second, knew it was going to be okay. Whatever this family legacy was, it didn't destroy her, so by extension, it was probably safe to say he'd survive as well.

No, this wasn't something to be feared. He had to believe it was the start of something wonderful.

He picked the journal off from his chest, sat up, and read on. And as before, he could feel the words wanting to fuzz and blur, the memories trying to draw him inexorably downward. But as he continued, he grew increasingly confident of what he could do. Over the course of an hour, he experienced different moments in the past, from the first person perspective: Victoria's encounter with the paint bucket. Chloe saving Max in the parking lot as Nathan attacked her. Taking the fall for Chloe in her bedroom, as she got busted for marijuana possession by her step-father...that bit actually had William laughing as soon as he emerged from the vision.

 _Parnaana, you dawg! And they made you mayor for twenty years!? Ha ha ha!_

With continued practice, he discovered he could adjust the 'depth' of his psychometric ability; he didn't have to go all the way down into the memories. He could merely skim them, pick up quick impressions, like speed reading a long passage, or reducing it down to an abstract. It wouldn't provide him with as much information as going 'all the way', but it helped reassure him that he probably wasn't going to jump into one of the memories imprinted in the journal and never come back as himself again.

It was mid-afternoon by the time he made it to the end of the Monday entry; his enchantment and elation with his new-found ability again turned to icy lead in his guts as he read of Max's repeated vision of the tornado, followed by a freak snow flurry. There was a primitive, primeval instinct, deep in his brainstem, trying to warn him of something.

Something awful.

 _Of course something terrible is going to happen. Dur! A tornado is going to destroy the city, a murderer is going to be found out! It's going to be one of the darkest weeks in all of Arcadia Bay history. I know all that already!_

He couldn't put his finger on the feeling; clearly there was more to events than what he knew from the available history. But he was also exhausted and starving. He needed a break, however brief, before he could make himself go on.

Placing the journal into a ziploc bag, he stashed it away in a safe spot, backed away and murmured, his hands held up, "Okay so just...don't go anywhere? Right? Just stay there, and I'll be back in a little while, and we'll continue. Promise."

 _Ugh. Goddess above. I'm talking to books! Maybe I'm not crazy after all, but I am definitely not the textbook definition of sane anymore, either._

He needed a break, that was for sure.

But he'd only be able to endure a short one.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ First things first: reddit user **LEXX911** has made the most brilliant offline interactive version of Max's journal. I found it just as I was getting ready to start writing chapter 3, and it is just glorious! It has every text, every photo, every character reference, and every page of her journal. There is an easy and intuitive system that lets you go back and forth, reading pages based on choices made through the game. I would go as far as to say this is an invaluable reference tool that frankly every LiS fanfic author should download.

Now, onto my ramblings:

In some ways, I really liked how this chapter came out, and it's sort of my favorite thus far; in other ways, this is the point of writing this story where I start to freak out. A lot.

Once again, a small story that I primarily intended to be a one shot is falling prey to significant mission creep. In the case of Grande Dame, I really didn't mind - even enjoyed it - because I wanted the story to say and do a whole bunch of things, so I was happy for all the material that bubbled up into my brain. But this story was always intended to be nothing more than an enjoyable coda/final dip into the pool and I'm getting increasingly worried about it overstaying its welcome. There are so many great, pivotal scenes in Life Is Strange, and god knows, trying to have William experience them all in-depth would drag this story to...a….crawl. Needlessly. Because how many stories do we need that are just a retelling of the games events? I'll admit I think I have a neat hook, but it's a shallow one as well.

So now the tough part comes in deciding where I flesh things out for effect - like in this chapter, which again, I enjoyed - or where to sort of whiz past a bit in a more "telling instead of showing" style (probably places like the diner meeting on Tuesday). So I guess this is just me, in my usual long-winded idiom, apologizing if some parts of this story seem to drag, and other parts go by too quick or seem overly-abbreviated.

The good-ish part is that it made me see a potential point of conflict that I was either going to need to develop - but if I did, would really change the story in ways I absolutely didn't want to go down - or resolve in a way without rushing it too badly. This wasn't really intended to be a heavy, conflict-laden thing, more of a lark. But it also gave me an idea for a nifty twist near the end. Maybe even one of those controversial epilogues that people either love or hate, just like last time :D Still not sure I'm going to go with it, because I could be opening a hella-huge can of worms, but you know me, I love fucking with temporal mechanics so much. :D

Oh, and I finally decided to raise the age limit on this to M. Think I'm dropping too many F-bombs to get away with T at this point.

Have a good one!


	4. Chapter 4

William was relieved to see that a shipment of food had already made its way to the house, with much, but not all of it, put away. The available assortment was simple: basics staples, some pre-packed meals, and a variety of cartridges for the food synthesizer. He made a sour expression at the last item, and as he unpacked the rest of the groceries, the amateur chef in him took stock at what was available, quickly plotting out a few meals that he could scrape together over the next two or three days.

For now, he was content to gulp down a bottle of water and quickly devour a couple of apples, grateful that the kitchen didn't appear to be feeling particularly chatty at the moment. Before he could return to the attic, his grandmother came down from the study.

"Hello! Everything going okay up there?"

He nodded quickly, unable to speak for a few seconds with a mouth still full of apple.

"Good. While I've got you, let's talk about dinner plans…" Her eyes darted over towards the kitchen, prompting her to smile. "Oh! Thank you for taking care of the rest of that. Anyhow, I'll cook tonight, but you have to promise to make me something special tomorrow. Kimber tells me that she taught you how to make a few Italian dishes when you were back in Manhattan for Christmas, and it's been awhile since I had a good linguine Alfredo."

"Huh? Oh! Sure, sure, toto-aff." William replied. "It's just...well, I was kind of hoping we could skip dinner tonight, or fend for ourselves, y'know?"

"Oh?" Rachel said, quirking a curious eyebrow upward. "I suppose so, just for tonight. Maybe. What's got you so on-top primed-up? I know that look, young man." she teasingly warned.

"I found _parnaani's_ journal!" he blurted out, then silently cursed as his tongue managed to jump a second ahead of his brain. He winced internally; it wasn't that he wanted to hide his discovery from his grandmother, not really. But given the fantastic, unbelievable tale unfolding already, there was a part of him that couldn't help but wonder whether it might have been advantageous to obscure some of the truth from her, once he knew the full story. At the very least, he needed time to read and digest all of the entries from the entire week in October, so he'd know how to explain it all to her.

Damnit! If only there was some way he could take those last few seconds back...

"Will? What are you doing?" Rachel asked.

He blinked, as he suddenly realized he'd raised his hand up in the air on instinct, almost exactly the way he'd experienced his great-grandmother doing, in his memory-visions.

 _Shit! Still no time reversing powers, I guess._

"What? Oh! Nothing, just...stretching out a cramp in my hand!" He made exaggerated motions with his fingers and palm.

"And did you say you found one of Mom's journals? Are you sure? I thought I had them all."

William paused, as he considered something. What if his grandmother already knew the story? What if she found that journal and kept the incredible secrets contained inside to herself? But there was something about the notion that didn't feel quite right; it wouldn't hurt to test the waters.

"I dunnnoooo." he drawled, fishing for more details. "How far back do they go?"

"Well _that_ is a story in itself." Rachel rolled her eyes and added, "When Mom died, she left me her journals in her will. I didn't want to press Daddy about it right away, she was having such a hard time handling her death." She took a deep breath and said, "It's probably a terrible thing to say, Will, but it might have been easier if my father died first. She got over Mom's passing eventually, but it was a long struggle. We were really worried, for months; thank God Aunt Vicky finally got through to her. I mean, of course, Mom would have grieved but I think she also would have more easily managed to…" she groaned and waved a hand in the air. "Sorry, I'm rambling.

She continued, "Anyhow, three months after the funeral, I asked Dad about the journals; she acted so surprised, and I remember her stammering, saying something about how she needed to go through them first. It was toto-weird though, almost like she was - I don't know? Frightened. I decided not to press the issue for a few more months, and then she told me she needed them for the art project she and Victoria were working on." Rachel shook her head and snorted. "You know, it was ten years before I finally got the damn things, and that was only after Dad passed. Always one excuse after another whenever I asked, and after I while I gave up. When I finally got my hands on them, I started reading right away, just to see what the hell was so important. So secret. Why Dad felt she had to hang on to them. So, to _finally_ answer your question, they go back to the time Mom left for San Francisco in 2014 but…"

William noticed there was an unspoken question on her lips. "But?"

Rachel shrugged once. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear there were some pages missing. Just strange little gaps. I might have missed it entirely, except that one of the entries suddenly stopped when it shouldn't have, and when I took a closer look at the binding, it was obvious someone cut the next page out with a razor. Maybe my father did it, maybe she didn't. It was from around October of oooooh 2020, 2021 I think? And - ah - Mom always got so quiet around that time, every year. Obvious reasons."

William could imagine exactly why his great-grandfather would do anything in her power to delay her daughter discovering the truth. Why she would potentially expunge any evidence of her wife's time-manipulating capabilities. If Max Caulfield-Price ever looked back upon her supernatural experiences in her writings, how she somehow predicted the tornado…

 _Maybe she blamed herself for it; she had a vision of it, but didn't take it seriously, and when she didn't warn people and the town was destroyed, she blamed herself?_

But that didn't seem like all of it. People always had strange dreams, and many of them had the appearance of being prophetic, when analyzed in hindsight. That alone couldn't have been enough to make either Chloe or Max possibly try to hide the truth.

 _Maybe she kept her powers? The whole time, and for years, decades, she struggled not to abuse them. But...no. No! That doesn't sound right either._

Whatever was going on, it was clear William needed to discover the truth; by tomorrow morning, if at all possible. He figured there was going to be a lot more to the story than 'Girl dreams of tornado and discovers time powers.'

"This one was from high school. 2013, senior year." William murmured out. There was no point in lying about it now. If his grandmother was as invested in having her mother's journals as she appeared, she was going obviously going to demand the final piece to complete the set. Thus, he was unsurprised when her eyes lit up, and she asked, voice palpable with excitement:

"Really? Ohm-gee, can I see it? Please? This could answer a lot of questions I've had over the years. My parents never wanted to talk in great detail about what happened to them when Azrael struck. And...and then the day Daddy died..." She reached up, rubbing briefly at her eyes, her voice going quiet as she spoke, "She told me something. Something that led me to believe she might finally open up, and tell me more about that time. I suppose it could have been about a lot of different things, sure, but I always wondered..."

 _Shit! I need more time! I need an excuse, I need…_

An answer quickly flashed in his brain.

"Uh, yeah! Yes. Of course! But you'll have to wait. It's almost a hundred years old, and parts of it are faded and half falling apart. I'm in the middle of performing some really - ah - really complicated and delicate restoration work. It's why I'm working through dinner. I think I can get back a lot of it, though. Maybe most, even."

 _Yeah, maybe all of it, looking good as the day it was written. Ha! Naani will think I'm a genius until I have to tell her the truth._

"Then what the hell are you doing down here, kid!? Get back to work!" Rachel laughed, as she jokingly pushed him towards the stairs. He laughed in return, and started to walk away, until she suddenly grabbed his hand, pulling him back.

"William? I - thank you. What you've just found? It's incredibly important to me. I just want you to know I have absolute faith that you're going to take care of it. Make it readable, if it can be. I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer, so don't go rushing it and possibly making a mistake, just to please me." She paused and then hugged him, and murmured, "I'm glad it's you, _potaa_. That you're the one that found this. I don't think anyone would understand why this means so much, not like you would."

He hugged back, nodding firmly, now incredibly relieved that he wasn't actually trying to undertake a complicated restoration process that he'd only done once or twice under instructional laboratory conditions in the past; he'd probably be sweating buckets, if that were the case.

"Everything's going to be fine, _naani_. You'll see. I promise. This'll be extra on-top." He then playfully saluted and walked off, announcing, "Just be sure to remind Delacroix how amazing I am, the next time you see her!"

"Hah! Fine." Rachel said, before turning away. As William walked up the stairs, he could hear her remark to herself, "Weird, could've sworn I glanced through all the boxes in the attic when Dad died…how'd I miss something like that?"

* * *

 _"Amazeballs._ _I_ _literally just got chills all over my neck!"_

"You and me both." William chuckled as he did a lighter surface scan over the memories in the journal. He'd discovered that if he was careful about it, he could pick up images and voices while still remaining rooted in the present moment; like dipping a foot into the pool, as opposed to jumping in all the way. It didn't provide all of the possible emotional texture and full sensory experiences, but it was useful all the same. Some parts of the journal had emotionally charged entries that were 'deeper' than others, more difficult to not fall headlong into. In his mind's eye, reading became like walking across a beach at low tide, with the occasional hazard of stepping into patches of quicksand.

But even a 'lighter scan' let him read between the lines in far greater detail than he thought possible. He received impressions of Max outright enjoying showing off for Chloe, as they ate breakfast at the diner - at the same table he himself sat at earlier this morning! - delighting in the smiles and enthusiastic responses her displays produced, the catch in her thought process as the blunette offhandedly mentioned how Max could have made a move on her and she'd never know.

William could sense that even though Max didn't write it down in actual words, the moment stuck in her brain, just a few beats longer than it might have for a casual observer. With his own knowledge of how future events would unfold, he could clearly see the seeds of their eventual relationship being planted, even if his great-grandmother was, at the time consciously unaware.

There were other small delights and wonders he experienced while 'reading' about Tuesday in the diner; for the first time in his life, he was able to see his great-great-grandmother Joyce as a woman of flesh and blood, in all possible dimensions; as someone more than a mere collection of verbal recollections, pictures and videos made over the years. He could feel the affection that Max had for her, as a second mother. Close then, and destined to become even closer as the years ahead rolled on.

And he had to admit that yes, her waffles were indeed superior to what was being made at the Two Whales in the modern day.

Witnessing Chloe and Max's time in the junkyard was fascinating from as much a dispassionate academic perspective as it was an intriguing investigation into his own family history. For instance, private ownership of lethal firearms was almost unheard of in the 22nd century; with a wide range of highly effective non-lethal defensive weapons - sonic stunners, ionizing dazzers, and the like - there were fewer convincing argument being made for their use in home and personal defense. Naturally there were still pockets of resistance in the world - especially in North America - that insisted on acquiring them, especially for hunting purposes. But the notion that a nineteen-year old could so easily obtain a gun, even from a legal collection, was curiously alien to William. Combined with witnessing first-hand the different styles of clothing, materials, and even subtle shifts in speech and mannerism, he found himself having to pause for a moment, suppressing a fantastic surge of excitement.

 _A century ago is one thing, but imagine if I could get a few minutes alone with the Mona Lisa. The Beyeux Tapestry or the Shroud of Turin! So many questions I could finally get the answer to!_

As he continued reading, he gasped instinctively, thankful that he wasn't fully engaging his new powers as he witnessed a timeline where things went horribly wrong; a dangerous ricochet, the agonized pleading in Chloe's voice, begging Max to 'go back, go back!'. By the time he'd experienced the tense, heart-pounding confrontation with a man named 'Frank' - someone William would later learn eventually cleaned up his act and became a legitimate pillar of the community - and lived through the horror of Max trying to save Chloe from being run over by a train, he forced himself to put the journal down, if just for a few minutes.

It was the multiple attempts that so deeply disturbed him. Watching as Max struggled, helplessly to figure out she needed to do to save Chloe, until she finally got it right. Two, three, four times she failed, as Chloe was crushed under furious steel wheels. The bloodcurdling last screams that filled her ears: pain, accusation, shock, fear and horror, all intermingled. The world would crawl to a grey halt; Max would rewind and try again.

 _How did you do it,_ parnaani? _How could you stand there and watch something like that, over and over again? How could you carry the guilt and the stress with you, without going mad?_

William was coming to appreciate what an incredibly formidable woman Maxine Caulfield-Price was, despite her friendly nature and gentle demeanor.

His reaction to the events in American Rust still left him distracted, once he picked the journal back up and started reading again. Perhaps if he'd been focusing, he'd notice the 'emotional sinkhole' that suddenly drew him into another deep vision of memory…

 _...she reaches out, desperate to save Kate, the girl she should have been a better friend to. Maybe she could argue she wasn't as awful as all the people on the ground - the ones who held their smartphones out and took video of Kate jumping, before that abortive time-thread was reeled back - but she has her own sins to bear. Kate came to her earlier that morning, thinking she was a sympathetic supporter and asked her for advice; it was clear she wanted to go to the police, but…_

" _I'm just telling you how the cops and school will look at this."_

 _Her intentions were good. That's what she tells herself. That they were always pure._

 _Weren't they?_

 _But the truth is, she was frightened, as much for herself as she was for Kate. The Prescotts were a wealthy family whose long history made it clear that they had no qualms about abusing the power that money bought. From a practical perspective, not going to the police without absolutely iron-clad evidence might have been the better choice, but it was also the more cowardly one._

 _She realizes, far too late, that she should have been stronger. For both their sake._

 _In the diner, she only compounded her initial mistake, when Kate reached out to her on the phone. A call borne out of what might well have been a final moment of desperate need. But she ignored it, because she saw how it was upsetting Chloe. At the time, it seemed so crucial, so important to keep her estranged, blue-haired friend happy...the need building inside her was curiously desperate; muted, but flaring up in ways she didn't yet comprehend or acknowledge._

 _But still: the call was muted; the die was cast._

 _She's working without a net here; her powers, still strange and mysterious, have shown a fickle side, a mind of their own, flaring out in a massive burst that allowed her to get to Kate in time, seconds before she jumped, but then abandoned her in an hour of need._

 _She's only got one shot at this, at fixing everything. Here, on the roof of the girls dorm, in the cold and the rain._

 _She picks carefully through her responses, as she weaves her way through the strained wordplay, trying to convince her friend that the world hasn't abandoned her, that she's strong enough to get through this living nightmare. That she and Chloe are working to prove her innocence. It's clear that the talk from earlier in the morning works against her; even worse, refusing to take her phone call has damaged Kate's fragile trust in her. Despite all the handicaps arrayed against her, she manages to remind Kate that she has other people who care about her as well. People like her father…_

 _...and it does the trick. The blonde girl comes down at last, falling into her arms at the last step. Sobbing, and apologizing._

 _She thinks to herself that_ she _should be the one begging for forgiveness instead; the only reason she knew to mention Kate's father was because she'd started poking around in people's private effects and affairs, gathering information, and rewinding back when the consequences of acquiring said knowledge blew up in her face. Dana and Daniel, Brooke and Kate. Chloe and Victoria. She's becoming so manipulative, plotting, controlling; that's the ugly truth of it all. She means well, but this power...it's already corrupting her, working its hooks into the core of her morality. She can't help but see it so clearly now, how power warps even the best of souls; and she would hardly consider herself a member of that group. Especially now._

 _All the same, she's done it; she's saved Kate. And in doing so, perhaps found some small measure of redemption for herself as well._

William gasped, wrenching himself from the memory-trance. Sharp, fresh pangs of empathy rippled through him, as he took to heart his great-grandmother's struggle with her power and the kind of woman she feared it was turning her into.

 _Is that what happened to her in the end? Did she do something terrible, something so awful that she somehow found the strength to give the power up, swearing to never use it again?_

It was obvious that the answer was wrapped up in the storm, but he hadn't seen enough yet to truly understand the connection.

He paused for a few seconds in contemplative thought; he wasn't immediately familiar with the other girl in the vision, the one named Kate, but given that she almost killed herself in an exceedingly public fashion, it wouldn't be hard for him to find out who she was.

A quick Internet search provided everything he needed:

 _ **Kate Beverly Bickel (nee Marsh)  
**_ _9/12/1995 - 7/28/2066_

He ran through the highlights of his search: it turned out that she was one of Nathan Prescott's victims, and that it was ultimately suspected he and Mark Jefferson were manipulating her into committing suicide in order to cover their tracks. Despite the terrible things that happened to her during that week, she came back and finished off the remainder of her senior year at Blackwell, after the town was rebuilt. She then embarked upon a career writing children's books for the next two decades.

 _...Ohm-gee!_ That _Kate Marsh?_

William had dim, but fond memories of his Mama Kamala reading him "Many Paths To One Love", from a first edition autographed hardcover; the book itself was a heartwarming and wonderfully supportive piece discussing all sorts of different marriages, but it was already decades old when he was a little boy. He recalled asking his great-grandfather to read it to him once; she did, but there was a curious sadness that momentarily crossed her features at the request. He only took note of it at the time because he worried he'd said or done something wrong.

The final entry in his search gave him the reason for that sadness.

 _...perished with her husband Mordecai during a high-spirited peace demonstration in Jeddah, Free Arabia, in 2066, during the closing days of the Arabian Civil War, when desperate members of the Crimson Crescent smuggled in and detonated a high-flux neutron device as part of a last-ditch effort to turn the conflict back towards their favor._

"Damn." he hissed.

It struck him as a tragic loss; to have suffered the way she did in her youth, to the point of almost ending it all. To be saved, but still eventually die under such terrible circumstances regardless.

 _But she had a lot of good years, from the sound of it. Marriage and kids, and career success. And dying for something she believed in: that everyone was equal in the eyes of their Creator, and that everyone should try to love one another._

The Middle East was still one of the most tempestuous regions left on a planet now largely at peace, but it was no longer the barely contained powder-keg of a century ago; the secular reforms brought about by conflicts such as the Arabian Civil War saw to that. William certainly wanted to think that people like Kate Bickel helped bring that about, that their deaths weren't in vain, and perhaps, in some small way, Max Caulfield was fulfilling a destiny by keeping Kate alive, so that she could in turn positively touch so many lives on her own.

As he continued reading through, he discovered that despite the Prescott family's wealth and influence, Max's accusations against Nathan in the principal's office led to his temporary suspension.

William then stopped short, as Tuesday's end brought a chilling revelation.

" _Max, there was no eclipse scheduled for today. I would have know. I would have."_

William made a mental online query, consulting the various astronomy databases and tables available to him. To this day, scientists still couldn't account for the 'unscheduled eclipse'; it was chalked up as one of life's great mysteries, no doubt rooted in some sort of easily explainable human error. Almost no one spoke at great length about it anymore. Certainly, there was small handful of people who made the obvious connection between this event and Azrael, but overall, the eclipse-that-shouldn't-have-been was all but unknown to the populace in general. It was almost as if its impossibility was too much for humankind at large to successfully process; that somehow, it was easier to turn its collective head away and ignore the mystery, the 'glitch in the matrix' that couldn't be explained away. To instead embrace the comfort of Occam's Razor. That to try and peel back the layers of that impossible phenomenon otherwise would invite dangerous consequences, draw the attention of forces menacing and mysterious.

 _Strange behavior, neh? For an otherwise overly-curious race of kinda-smart monkeys._

William had to admit that he was far from immune, that it produced an instinctive sense of dread in him, even now. As if something in his head was telling him to stop and go no further. The feeling wasn't powerful, but it seemed to be growing ever more insistent; something increasingly difficult to not act upon.

It was enough to make him put the journal aside and distract himself with some more item cataloging for half an hour, before he was ready to pick the book back up and continue on, despite the ache in his mind, the part desperate to discover the entire truth before the sun rose again.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Hey kids.

So, shorter chapter than I initially planned. I've been ill lately - bad cold and flu season all around - and while I am very excited for writing the last couple of chapters, this is one of those stories where the middle always feels like a bit of a slog to get out. But this felt like a good, natural stopping point, so instead of trying to make an 8K chapter, I decided to break this one off, and set aside much of the material I wrote in addition for another chapter. I suspect Chapter 5 is going to go a lot into "The Kiss" and "Alternate Chloe".

(And again, all my talk of, 'Oh yeah, this won't be more than three chapters, four tops' goes laughably down the drain. :D)

Poor Kate's ultimate fate was actually an idea I had way back when I was still writing Grande Dame. I wanted to try and write her death scene from her POV; I initially envisioned this whole thing where she stood up against an armed terrorist mob and laid down her life to protect some helpless people. I just couldn't figure out how to bring it up at the time without making it feel weirdly shoe-horned in, so I filed it away for another day. But it always seemed weird that we have a rough idea of what happened to Victoria to the end, but nothing of Kate after Max and Chloe are wed.

So anyhow, I hope folks are have a good one. It's weird, I feel like I have some more shoutouts to make...

*snaps fingers*

Riiiiight! The Crimson Crescent. Astute readers might catch on that they were the terrorist organization that 'President Maxine" had to contend with in **LonesomeBard's** "Executive Rewind". He's very kindly given me permission to bring them up when I have need of a Middle Eastern antagonist group; I find it appealing, the notion of different writers universes bleeding into each other sometimes. I did that in my first major Mass Effect series on occasion, and I enjoyed it immensely. Speaking of LB, you should check out his new **Saving** **Rachel Amber** series, for a clever take on Max trying to have her cake (saving Rachel Amber AND Chloe AND Arcadia Bay) and eat it too. (Just Chloe ;)

One last shout out to the lovely people at the Reddit community, and the kind readers who have been sending me messages as of late! Thank you, you all are the best!


	5. Chapter 5

William continued to read through the events of Tuesday, October 8th. While he appreciated the tension and mystery his great-grandparents must have experienced in the course of their illegal sleuthing work, it was all completely anti-climactic from his perspective. He already knew the answers that Max and Chloe were searching for, and he knew how events would ultimately play out: Nathan was the murderer, but only under Mark Jefferson's cruel tutelage. Everyone knew that David Madsen had been suspicious of both teacher and student for weeks, and finally managed, late on Thursday, October 10th, to gather up enough evidence to convince the local police to raid the underground fallout shelter that the pair had been using for their terrible crimes. Certainly, it was nice to start seeing exactly how Max and Chloe contributed to that triumph, even though there was a part of him that wished he could somehow call out across the vast span of decades and tell them what they needed to know; that he could somehow save them all the trouble, time and effort.

 _But why? I mean, things worked out in the end. Well, except for what happens on Friday, but even then...a tragedy, yeah, toto-horrible, but folks got through it, and things got better over time. A lot better._

He couldn't change the past, and honestly, why would he want to? Even Max's powers to alter time appeared to be highly limited, at least from what he'd read so far, and that was probably for the best.

He laughed, winced, and shook his head as he read through the pages, both amused and dismayed, as the pair of them committed illegal entry, violated any number of privacy laws, and then topped it off with what was probably second-degree larceny. He was well aware of Blackwell's less-than-sterling history back in the old days, especially with regards to corruption, and chances were good that the money the two of them took was indeed embezzled.

 _Still feels like one of those two-wrongs-don't-make-a-right kind of situation, but my great-grandparents were young. What was Raymond Wells' excuse? On the other hand….I can't believe it! If people in this city knew that 'The Grande Dame', their beloved mayor and Federal politician, had such a criminal past…well...more than what's public record already._

But she paid for it all, didn't she? For whatever crimes she might have committed? It was clear, based on what he knew of his great-grandfather, and of the history of Arcadia Bay, that she was deeply affected by the town's destruction. He found it difficult to reconcile the young, angry punk he was reading about with the passionate woman who single-handedly convinced an entire town of scared citizens not to abandon their community, and who ultimately became a living symbol of the city she always seemed so proud to serve.

 _I hate to say it, but I don't see_ this _Chloe Price doing anything but running out of the ruins of Arcadia Bay on Friday morning and never looking back. She clearly hated the place, at least from this particular point in her life._

Something must have happened. Something clearly changed her, deeply and permanently, in the wake of the storm.

 _But what? And why?_

In the meantime, he contented himself with the knowledge that he'd soon find the answer in the pages of the journal. Probably.

 _And hell, the Price-Caulfield's have given a_ lot _of money to Blackwell over the years. A lot more than five grand. Max was a teacher there, for years and years. And_ parnaana _rebuilt big parts of this school with her own two hands_. _Yeah, I think they both paid back whatever was stolen. With interest._

William made up his mind then and there; he wasn't going to let whatever initial impressions he had of Chloe as a young woman negatively distort the knowledge of the person she ultimately became. Maybe his own youth was relatively trouble-free, even idyllic by comparison, but he wasn't perfect. He wasn't in any place to judge. Everything he was discovering didn't make him love her any less. If anything, his great-grandfather now felt more alive and richly complex as a person than he ever had the chance to get to know when she was still living. He suddenly found himself missing her bitterly.

 _If only you were here. You could tell me so much more, from your perspective. But...no point in fucking moaning over the impossible._

He did burst out laughing when Chloe decided to celebrate their ever-growing rap sheet of crimes with an impromptu night swim. He thought about experiencing that situation from Max's full perspective, but there was something about the way Chloe said, "Boys or girls", the way Max responded, "Girls, of course.", and the blush that rose to her cheeks at the "Oh-la la." There was a moment, a nudge. Just like in the diner, it caught in Max's thoughts, and delightfully confused her. But it was a moment that William clearly understood better than she did, and it increasingly felt like a violation to knowingly delve into intimate episodes like this one, even though they were nothing but the memories of a woman now long deceased.

But he was glad for his discretion, as reading the surface impressions was still uncomfortable enough. It was exactly like being a peeping tom: able to witness sight and sound without picking up all of the emotional context, but he could see what was blossoming between the pair of them. Maybe they didn't - or couldn't - acknowledge it at the time. Or maybe his knowledge of future events was coloring how he viewed all of their interactions.

As he began reading the first few words of Wednesday morning's entry, he could feel the powerful pull of the imprinted memories in the pages; Max had been strongly feeling whatever she was writing about, when committing ink to the page. William narrowed his eyes, focusing to keep from being drawn down, and for a half a minute, it worked. But much like the anthropomorphic animals in the ancient cartoons that he once studied in his History of Early Mass Media class, the ones who run off the edge of the cliff and keep moving forward in clear defiance of gravity, he made the critical mistake of mentally stopping and 'looking down'...with equally unresistable results...

 _She wakes up in bed, next to Chloe._

 _It wasn't the first time, of course. She used to come over to her friend's house for sleepovers all the time; Chloe still had the big queen bed back then, and it made sense for them to share it. But for reasons she can't put her finger on, the experience feels different this time, even as all the sights and smells produce a powerful feeling of nostalgia inside her._

 _In her mind's eye, the span between thirteen and eighteen is suddenly like a yawning, massive chasm, a mile wide, but only inches deep. Shallow, in the sense that the unspoken hurt - and the uncomfortable questions still hanging between them - evaporates like fog in the rising sun. The gulf is always there, but it's ultimately crossable._

 _Sneaking out after dark, committing unlawful entry with stolen keys, building bombs, digging up blackmail, stealing what was no doubt embezzled money, and then topping it all off with an intimate swim in the pool; all of it is so unlike her! Max the safe-player, Max the unchallenging, who comes so close, but falls so far. The girl people keep saying has a gift for capturing moments in life, yet is herself unable to live it fully. It's as if she'd spent the last half-decade - the great bulk of her teenage years - sleepwalking. Just enough to get by, but little worth writing home about. She had her tiny handful of friends back in Seattle, and they would get into occasional mishaps, but none of it could hope to compare with what she's gone through in the past forty-eight hours alone._

 _She smiles to herself, a smile punctuated by a bittersweet realization: she's lost out on so much, missed so many things. Precious opportunities and times of her life, and she would never have a chance to get that back. She and Chloe were such good friends together, so how the hell did she let that fall apart? And after they finally figured out what the hell was going on - what became of Rachel, what Nathan Prescott was up to - would they start to drift apart again? Was cracking this mystery like a couple of Nancy Drews the only thing that actually bound them together anymore?_

" _No!" she thinks to herself._

 _She can't let that be the truth! No matter how things end, she knows that she can never make the same mistake she did five years ago. Chloe was...is...her friend. Her best friend. And she if she lets the older girl slip casually through her fingers a second time, then she didn't deserve to have any friends at all for the rest of her life._

 _She glances over her shoulder, giving a soft laugh to herself as she sees Chloe still dozing. Inspiration strikes; if she takes a photo of this moment now, it becomes like an anchor. A reminder of this particular moment of introspection and reflection, a physical manifestation of her vow to never let Chloe drift out of her life again._

 _She lifts the camera up, aiming it just so. Off the cuff. She lets artistic instinct guide her hand, and somehow remains remarkably calm when Chloe suddenly rises up, crying out, "Photo-bomb!". On instinct, she calls back, "Photo hog!" The artistic part of her mind briefly seethes, but the rest of her is delighted. This is just the sort of thing Chloe would do, back in the old days. It warms her heart to see that past playful spirit undiminished by what has clearly been a difficult life over the past five years._

 _They sit back, chat, make small talk. Chloe turns on some music, indy guitar, the kind of stuff the both of them have always enjoyed. It feels like so much in her life has changed, in such a short amount of time. Or maybe the rest of the world stayed the same, and_ she's _the one who's different now._

 _Speaking of change, she absolutely needs a different set of clothes; her stuff from last night sits in the corner, a damp pile reeking of chemicals._

 _Chloe offers her the pick of Rachel's clothes from her closet, saying that the two of them would be roughly the same size. For a moment, there's a tightness in her heart - one she barely notices - at the thought that the two of them were so close that clothing was being left behind. She needs something to wear, but she isn't sure she wants to dress up like...like Chloe's other best friend. Her new one…_

 _...maybe the one she liked better._

 _On the other hand, new life, new style. It'd be intriguing to try it on._

 _Chloe is all for the idea, of course, brightly encouraging. "Stop second guessing yourself, Max! Put this on, and let your inner punk-rock girl come out. You can afford to take chances! Whenever and whatever you want to try...for example, I dare you to kiss me."_

" _What?"_

 _Did she hear that right? Kiss Chloe? Like, on the lips? But, then where else could her friend have meant?_

" _I double dare you. Kiss me now."_

 _The world slows down; time hangs like a scintillating curtain. Suddenly, everything splits off into a million billion directions, playing against each other like multiple layers of film, looping over and over. By now, she's gotten used to this strange, passive aspect to her power, the ability to sense 'decision points', things of consequence...that is, more consequential than others. At least in her life, but maybe in others as well? Gah! It makes her head hurt to think about it! But hell, obviously this is kind of a big deal; she doesn't need magic time powers to tell her_ that _much!_

" _Right? I mean...yes, no. Maybe?" she thinks to herself._

 _What is it that she actually whats?_

 _She closes her eyes and decides to go with instinct. That sounds best. Sure. Yeah. She'll just tell Chloe that sorry, she's not…_

 _...but the rest of her takes off, acting on a will all its own. Her hands reach out , one resting on the blunette's shoulder, the other cupping her face. Their lips press together. It's like everything she expects it to be, and nothing at all as she imagined. There's a thrill there, but she tells herself it's merely the product of taking a chance, of blowing Chloe's mind…_

 _...which most definitely has happened! The blunette jerks back, a shocked look on her face. She stammers something out, about her being hardcore. There's a quavery aspect to her friend's voice, a slight flush to her cheeks._

 _In that moment, she can't help but feel confident, even powerful, as she sees the effect the kiss has on Chloe. "You are such a dork." she breezily states._

 _That was a nice little thing. Yeah. Pleasant. New Max is here, large and in charge. That was so priceless, when she kissed Chloe, and the other girl didn't think she would. Just a fun, jokey thing between two old friends._

 _But she reaches up and briefly touches her mouth, wondering why she still feels the heat on her lips._

 _She shakes her head, trying to clear it, as she focuses on the task at hand: picking out a new set of clean, dry clothes. She should just put the kiss out of her head, because it didn't matter. Not a bit._

 _It was nothing at all._

 _She lets out a soft sigh and closes her eyes for a moment, as she realizes that in the end, Chloe probably only sees Rachel Amber in her future._

William let out as gasp, panting as if he'd completed an impossibly long underwater lap and was finally breaking through the water to catch his breath.

 _Guh! That was toto the last thing I needed to see!_

There was a tremendous intimacy in what he'd just witnessed, the stirrings of Max's crush on Chloe, and whether this was the moment where it began in earnest, or if it was only the point where a latent attraction was finally rising to the surface at long last. But all of it was intensely private, and at first, William felt incredibly embarrassed by having experienced it. It produced in him the same sort of fluster that might happen if someone walked into their parents bedroom while they were having sex.

But this was something he kept falling into, despite his best attempts to tiptoe around the most delicate parts of the story, trying to keep himself away from the deep layers of impressed memory burned into whatever quantum layer of the paper held the information. And the fact that he was being dragged - against his will, when you thought about it! - deep into these moments was starting to feel like a personal violation. He absolutely did not want to experience some of these things that were keenly private, to have his entire sense of self-identity overwhelmed and then left with the memories...

 _...but it's like this damn journal has a mind all its own!_

That didn't make any sense.

Did it?

If the journal did indeed possess an ineffable intelligence, a pseudo-sentience as it were, then wouldn't it only want to show him things relevant to the story of how Arcadia Bay was destroyed? Certainly, that was the tale being told, at least in his mind. Given that everything starts with his great-grandmother dreaming of the tornado, he felt that should have been the most important overarching element.

This was supposed to be a disaster story, not a romance novel!

But maybe the things he was seeing _were_ the most vital scenes in the tale, but he lacked the context to understand why.

 _More likely, it's just matter of emotional impact. Everything I've seen so far has been hardcore rooted in how deeply it affected_ parnaani, _on a personal level_. _Chances are it's no more complicated than that. The story of how my great-grandparents fell in love - this whole sidebar of their earliest flirting - doesn't seem all that important in explaining the question of why a giant super-tornado destroyed the whole town._

At any rate, he absolutely wanted to avoid getting dragged unwillingly down into anything else, and an idea quickly popped into his head.

 _Easy. Duh. Ultra-duh! All I have to do is just read the words. Like, with my own eyes...no more using my power to look at_ any _of the meta-context, memories or impressions. 'Cause if I don't stick my hand in the water, I can't get pulled into the ocean. So I'll just read the words normally, and if I don't understand everything that happened by the time I get to the end of the journal, then I'll go back and look for clues._

William was smugly pleased by his clever - albeit obvious - solution to the problem, as he focused on reading ahead.

It was a sense of triumph that immediately evaporated a scant few pages later. Right when he got to the part where Max was alone in her dorm room, staring at the picture taken by his great-great-grandfather and namesake.

That was where, without warning, he fell into the deepest hole yet.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Whew! A shorty of a chapter, but this one felt like a major slog to get through. To be honest, I always feel that way when having to craft "retellings". It's one thing to write your own story, entirely another to write ABOUT another's. For LiS, it involves going back and reading Max's journal, and watching videos on YouTube so you get details as correct as possible; and in that sense, thank god for modern technology, the authors greatest friend and biggest hindrance!

You would think, given the complex things I've had to write for Black Swan, that I would find keeping the tangles in canon LiS in my head a breeze, but hell no! I almost always forget that by the time the game is over - Sacrifice Bay, of course - history records that David Madsen busted Jefferson and Prescott late Thursday night. For everyone but Max, there was never a kidnapping, no time in the Dark Room. But I'm pretty damn sure I screwed this up at least once, especially in the very beginning of Grande Dame. But...ah well.

Long story short, this was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but given my lack of time, my own going energy and health issues, and the slogginess of this part of the story, it felt better, more artistically correct, to make this bit its own chapter, so that all of the incredibly intense happenings in the Alt universe would stand largely alone for next time. The good news is that we're through the first three episodes at this point, and should be at the end of episode 4 when the next chapter is done, so we're making progress! Progress towards the stuff I'm really looking forward to writing: William's reaction to the full truth, and what happens when he reveals it to Rachel. Assuming he tells her every little thing, of course...

On a final, vaguely related side note, I was reading an article the other day, about how some of the slang words we see today came into general use almost a century ago. So I feel less bad about reusing some modern slang in this story-of-the-future, which should otherwise be ancient at this point :)

Anyhow, have a great rest of the day! See you in two to three weeks, hopefully!


	6. Chapter 6

_She walks down the beach, Chloe by her side, and wonders for the eighteenth time how the hell she got here. Was it really only a couple hours ago that she was sitting in her room, alone and miserable? That her heart was left aching after fighting with Chloe, when the truth came out about Rachel Amber and her relationship with Frank?_

 _Part of her supposes it was only a matter of time; they'd yet to have a honest discussion about the five year gulf that lay yawning between them. To talk about what their drifting apart entailed, from an emotional standpoint, and about whatever anger and blame might be woven through the fabric of the space that separated them._

 _So she shouldn't have been so surprised when resentment and abandonment issues finally burbled up to the surface, black and ugly. Still, when Chloe dumped her off unceremoniously at the steps of Blackwell Academy, she wanted to scream, or cry, or…_

 _...no. Not really._

 _All she wanted to do was make things better. Make Chloe better! Happier._

 _If only there was some way she could go back and fix things. Fix everything. The universe gave her this gift - or curse - to rewind time a few brief minutes, but she couldn't go all the way back to 2008. At least, that's what she thought._

 _And then…_

 _Hello, rabbit hole! A picture from the past; voices and laughter. Memories of happier times. She didn't know what was going on, not at first._

 _But she let whatever was coming rise up to meet her_

 _One minute, she was in her dorm room, the next, she was back in the past, on that fateful day. The one where Chloe lost her father to the cruel vagaries of an uncaring universe. Somehow, she was mentally in control of her thirteen-year old body, and still in possession of her rewind powers to boot._

 _It wasn't a dream; of that much, she was certain. There was absolutely no way it could be! With that in mind, she probably should have considered the full ramifications of giving Chloe exactly what she thought she wanted: for her father to come back to her, to somehow fail to keep his appointment with the Grim Reaper._

 _She worked to ensure that the day would have a different conclusion, that William Price would still be there, that he'd walk back through that door again when the sun went down. That he'd be present when it was time for dinner, when it was time to say goodnight. But all the while, there was an instinct in the back of her head, warning her, forcing her to take note of how plan after plan got knocked down by odd quirks of random chance, as if the Past Itself was resisting her attempts to change it. That had to have meant something._

 _In retrospect, it was all a terrible idea. Probably. The fact that the universe proved itself adept at foiling her many attempts should have been both a warning and an explanation for her to heed._

 _Nevertheless, she persisted._

 _Reshaping the past was like working cold taffy; difficult, but not impossible. It was over so quickly, and despite her misgivings, she found herself eagerly savoring the intuitive, instinctive knowledge that she'd won the fight. William would live. He would continue to be a positive influence in his daughter's life. And in his nurturing presence, Chloe - ever the hothouse orchid - would thrive and bloom._

 _She wondered what would happen now. Would she return to 2013, mission accomplished, or was she doomed to live out the next five years until she caught back up to the present? An answer was quickly received, when she suddenly came to in a world that looked so similar, yet_ felt _so alien. She was friends...with Victoria Chase? A member of the Vortex Club?_

"And oh God, bitch, you did NOT just call me Maxine…"

 _She ran to Chloe's house; maybe her friend wouldn't be there, but she certainly wouldn't be at school. No doubt graduated with honors, away at college. There was every likelihood that all was well, that Chloe was somewhere else - a happy college sophomore, or maybe an intern or...or the sky was the limit, really. Apparently anything was possible; because if you changed the past, what did you do for an encore?!_

 _Still, she has to know, she has to see it for herself. And that means catching the next bus._

 _David is still there, but he's a bus driver now; she can see the damaged eyes behind the smiling mask. It doesn't look right on him. Suddenly, she'd give anything to see him scowling or giving her an accusatory glare, or falling into a sad moment of self-doubt when he thinks no one else can see. Anything but the facade etched on his face today._

 _It's almost as disconcerting as the whale carcasses they drive past, the ones beached upon the shore._

 _She turns away, tries to tell herself it's just a coincidence, but she feels whatever flames of hope that had been stoked in her heart suddenly quenching. Something terrible is waiting for her at the Price house. She knows it, even if she, for the moment, refuses to fully embrace the truth._

 _She tries to drive it from her mind as she walks up to the house, so familiar, but there's something wrong. She can't quite put her finger on it. But her confusion and dread are temporarily forgotten in the triumphant exultation of William's presence. It wasn't a dream! He's still alive! And he's so happy to see her. And Chloe's around? Maybe she's home visiting? Maybe she's working, maybe she's…_

 _...but it's all Max can do to keep from immediately bursting into tears, as her friend rolls - yes, rolls - towards her, a quadriplegic in a wheelchair._

 _The past had taken more than a mere pound of flesh in recompense for her arrogance, for daring the think that What Was could be rewritten without permanent consequence. Time could lose any number of battles, but it would always win the war._

"My fault. My fault…"

 _Those words become a soft but insistent refrain in the back of her mind, rumbling at first like the distant sound of thunder, all the while threatening to blow like a long-dormant volcano violently returning to life. It's a refrain that swells as she looks out over the dead whales; a guilt that engorges itself when Chloe explains what happened to her: a car accident. A broken back. A life for a life, in a manner of speaking. Because William could not make it in time for his car accident, Fate kindly rescheduled the appointment for his daughter, instead._

 _They make solemn small talk as she delicately tries to suss out the relationship the two of them have had, here in this new timeline she doesn't have any memory of. She's half relieved-half ashamed to discover that the Max of this world wrote to Chloe after the accident; she hopes she'd do likewise, if given the chance._

" _I should have written to her in my time, too. Shouldn't have taken Chloe becoming fucking paralyzed to make me reach out to her again." she ruefully thinks to herself._

 _There's still a missing Rachel Amber. And snow, and dead birds and whales. This world is as broken as the one she left. Maybe more so._

 _They both put on their brave faces when they make their way back to 44 Cedar Avenue. She sees how Chloe lives now, a prisoner in her own body, one housed in a lovely, gilded cage. A cage her parents could barely afford to build, let alone maintain. She bites her lip hard, wincing as she reads through postcards sent over the years, from herself and her parents._

' _I know your life is different now. I don't want that to get in the way of our friendship. I hope you are well.'_

 _It turns her stomach, as she takes stock of the person she's become in this darkling shard of a universe. A party girl, at least that's the gist she gets from reading her journal, the text in its pages now modified by the twists and turns in the timestream. She wonders how the hell she could be so shallow, how she could hardly have paid any attention to Chloe in the past, but then realizes that she didn't even bother to keep the friendship going over the previous five years in the timeline she so recently left._

" _So how difficult is it to believe that even Chloe getting paralyzed is barely enough for me to give a damn?" she thinks. And for a moment, she is possessed of a black, roiling sense of self-loathing. She despises herself!_

 _But she's different now. At least she hopes she is. The fact that looking at all of this is tearing her apart inside means something important._

 _Right?_

 _Is it simply in her nature to be so callow and uncaring about people she calls her friends? Out of sight, out of mind? If so, she suddenly decides that she doesn't like that about herself. She wonders if her regret is enough to make a permanent change._

 _It's clear she can't let this timeline continue. She needs to take it all back. But there's a friend, her best friend, who needs some compassion, some human comfort. And a night watching a favorite movie together is such a small thing to ask. After all, she has time…_

 _...all the time in the world._

* * *

 _She doesn't remember falling asleep, but the harsh glare of the morning greets her all the same. She and Chloe banter back and forth, and for a few precious minutes, the tragedy of her paralysis doesn't seem like such an issue anymore. Their time together clearly means the world to the other girl; though she desperately drinks in the human contact, she still maintains her dignity the entire time. Even though she's obviously suffering in quiet agony from the chronic pain of her condition, Chloe grits her teeth and does her best to make a joking "mission" of it, for her to get some morphine from the bathroom._

 _She's not an idiot; she can tell Chloe is asking her to sneak something her friend shouldn't normally have so much of, but...what does it matter? It's all going to go away soon._

 _In the living room, she comes across William; whatever joy fills her heart curdles into something sour as she sees the deep lines etched into his once carefree face. The unmistakable way his back bends low, almost to the breaking point, as he valiantly struggles to carry the weight of the financial burden that his daughter's continuing existence entails. Upstairs, she's reunited with Joyce; the older woman clearly does her best to be a pillar of strength, but even her famous reserves are clearly reaching their depletion point. She is a steel column with a brittle core, merely enduring life as opposed to living it._

 _The path to the bathroom is strewn with clues, all laid out for her personal edification, as if the Universe was rubbing salt into the wounds in her heart. Letters and pictures, bills and messages, report cards and final notices due; all them are as brushstrokes painting a picture of untenable tragedy: a slowly decomposing hell. One that will end with a whimper of unfulfilled potential when Death comes and claims his prize at last._

 _A Price, paid in full._

 _It's all she can do to keep from visibly weeping when she sits back down at Chloe's bedside. She's half-numb as they reminisce over the pictures in the old photo album. She sees it already, her gateway out of the great and terrible wrong she's committed. All she has to do is take the picture and jump back._

 _But then Chloe speaks the words…._

" _I want this time with you to be my last memory. Do you understand?"_

 _Yes. She does. Without question._

 _She barely hesitates in accepting the task Chloe puts before her. Not because she doesn't think her actions have any consequences; absolutely the opposite. If there's any chance that this timeline, this broken Chloe, keeps going on after she leaves...she has to end this._

 _She has to release her._

 _She rises up, turns the IV pump all the way to maximum; such an easy thing to do. Literally like flipping a switch and turning off a light. It feels so wrong, this power to kill someone with the simple push of a button. But is it any more horrific than the power she's carelessly wielded since the beginning of the week?_

 _Chloe tells her that she's so proud of her. For following her dreams._

 _Chloe tells her that she loves her...then is no more than a discarded husk, spirit free at last._

 _And so she sits there, silent and alone. For minutes, for hours. Forever._

 _And for an endless eternity, she could almost fool herself into believing that she's doing nothing more than watching over a sleeping friend. Except for the obvious lack of breathing, of course, coupled with the slowly ebbing warmth in the blonde's hand, still held in her own._

 _The initial emotional numbness gives way to silent sobbing, as she forces herself to bear witness to what she's done._

" _I...I did this. I did this." she repeats to herself. She's barely eighteen and...how? How did this happen to her? To Chloe? To all of them? A week ago, hell, three days back, the only worry she had in life was a crippling lack of self-confidence in her own artistic ability as she agonized over producing an acceptable entry for some ultimately pointless contest._

 _And now, the Universe itself buckles, bends, and breaks at her thoughtless meddling. Death becomes her constant companion, her taunting rival, her unwanted accomplice._

 _And now, there's a little girl who lives in that place, the one called Monday Morning, October Seventh. Her name was Max Caulfield, and she's just as dead as the Chloe Price who lies still and cooling in her bed._

" _Chloe...oh God….Chloe."_

 _She grips the hand harder, because her heart won't stop breaking. And the tears won't stop flowing. She knows everything will come to an end before long, but still, she dies by degrees, until she can't stand sitting in the chair any longer, wrapped up in her personal chrysalis of remorse._

 _She brushes aside a few errant strands of blonde hair, then leans in and plants one last tender kiss on Chloe's lips._

 _The ghostly strains of Vangelis' 'One More Kiss, Dear' - from last night's movie - echo in her head. For a second, she honestly believes the act will restore her friend to life. As she returns to sitting in her chair, she wonders what she's feeling at this moment. Loss, but it's deeper. Worse than simply losing a friend. She doesn't know what to call it. Not yet. All she knows it's new and overwhelming for her. A craving for something she can never have._

 _At least, not here. Not now._

 _She takes it all back, wipes it away - or fervently prays she's doing so._

 _When it's over, when she watches William walk out of both of their lives for the last time, she comes to, somewhere still in the middle of Thursday morning. Life, it seems, was kind enough to continue on without her direct control. She marvels at what a brutally disturbing thing it is, to realize that her body here was running on autopilot, waiting patiently for her to come back and man the wheel. Or maybe it's something simpler - but more shocking - like a new universe bursting into existence, replete with falsified memories, backstories, and plot._

 _Strange though, that she can't really remember any of it, that gap between Wednesday and Thursday in this restored/recreated time. She tries to wrap her mind around the existential ramifications..._

 _...but then she sees Chloe._

 _She can't help herself, once she spies the blunette sitting at her desk. She throws her arms around Chloe, hugging her tightly, so flooded with relief to see her whole and healthy again._

 _It's all she can do to keep from kissing her again._

* * *

"Help." was all William could croak out, as he achingly emerged from the memory vision. It was a soft, plaintive call borne of a genuine sense of utter helplessness.

"Help." he repeated, just barely audible under his breath. He felt numb. Frozen. Possessed by the sort of sleep paralysis that happens a scant handful of times in life, when one wakes up from a nightmare, but their brain isn't all the way there yet, body unable to move. The subtle horror that leaves a person wondering if they're going to suffocate to death, or ever be normal again, until they finally snap out of it, seconds before the panic becomes overwhelming.

His thoughts were finally able to start moving forward of their own accord, his eyes darted about, even though he still feel a deep and profound emotional chill. In all the scant years of his charmed life, he'd never experienced anything as deeply disturbing or primally heartbreaking as what he'd just been forced to undergo.

 _I should stop. Really, I should just stop reading this. Back off, process, unwind, whatever I wanna call it. That was one of the most fucked up things I've seen. Toto-mindscrew. I need to put this book down, and go find_ naani _and chill for the rest of the day._

But he knew he was powerless to stop, even as the logical part of his mind demanded he do so. He inexorably continued down the path, reading through the rest of the events of Thursday night. The only saving grace of having witnessed his own great-grandfather's euthanizing - at least in an alternate timeline - was that the mental after-effect seemed to greatly shield him from being drawn fully into any more memories. It was almost as if a gear had been lodged lose in his brain, the part of his mentality that needed to be complete engaged for his new power to work at full strength.

It was a small blessing, but at the moment, it was one he was infinitely thankful for.

Even so, visions bled through; sights and sounds, as Max and Chloe pieced together the mystery of the so-called Dark Room; how they followed up on the clues that David himself was already slowly tying together, visited Kate in the hospital after Max saved her. Even at diminished capacity, his heart wrenched into painful knots as the sound of Chloe's rough and mournful wailing filled his ears, when she finally discovered the body in the junkyard.

The body of the woman who was his grandmother's namesake.

He watched as Chloe Price strode forth like a woman on a mission from God Herself, completely given over to tunnel vision, singularly focused on bringing Nathan Prescott to justice. William marveled at the steely determination that he'd only seem hints and intimations of, when he knew his great-grandfather in the final years of her life. Much as Max had been, he was shocked at Chloe pointedly ignoring the very real signs that reality was beginning to fracture, as evidenced by the two ghostly moons hanging in the sky. He paused, long enough to consult his web link, and found nothing more than a small footnote from NOAA, regarding an "unusual atmospheric occurrence, one capable of creating optical illusions" that took place that night.

Again, he marveled at Mankind's bottomless ability to ignore the impossible, all for the sake of maintaining its collective sanity.

His confusion grew as the two of them entered the high school in their quest to locate Nathan Prescott. Part of him was enthused and intrigued, because how often did someone get to experience such an intimate account of high school life from a century earlier? But he knew damn well that the historical records all showed that Chloe and Max never went to the End of the World Dance, that they instead turned around in the parking lot, and told their story to David Madsen **.** Either those records were wrong…

 _...or this is another timeline. One that gets wiped out._

It didn't take William long to understand why that might be the case; he slapped at his own neck instinctively, feeling the phantom sting of a needle that wasn't actually there. He then gaped in horror as Chloe was shot dead, straight between the eyes, by a smugly triumphant Mark Jefferson. Teacher turned murderer, the man who lured the both of them into what was now reveal as an obvious trap.

At this, William finally found the strength to make himself stop reading; to put the book down, rise to his feet, and force himself, step by step, to walk towards the lone window in the attic. He stood before it, bathing in the fading light as he let his mind wander, gathering his jumbled thoughts and trying to understand all of the pieces of the puzzle that lay before him.

One of those pieces loomed larger than all the others...

 _..._ parnaana _keeps getting killed. Monday, she gets shot. Tuesday, she gets shot and then crushed by a train. Wednesday, she ends up crippled when_ parnaani _tries to change the past. And finally, on Thursday, she gets shot. Again!_

 _All of this can't be coincidence! It can't! It almost feels like...like the universe felt cheated when she was saved that first time on Monday, and it's trying again and again to kill her. Acting like it's getting angrier and angrier when she's continuously saved by_ parnaani _._

Maybe William came to this conclusion on his own, but he couldn't help but suspect that the same niggling fears had also been welling up in the back of Max's brain as well, even if she lacked his perspective, his knowledge of future history, in order to make the connection so quickly.

He stretched out his stiff limbs and cracked his neck as the winter sun dipped low behind the horizon. Ideas burbled up into his brain, and he sifted through what he knew of historical fact, and what he thought he knew of the truth, based on what he'd witnessed so far.

Eventually, two theories began to solidify.

 _Right. So maybe_ parnaana _was meant to die all along; it was her fated time and place, and_ parnaani _robbed the universe of its rightful due. To the point where Death itself hounded Chloe Price, and Max Caulfield fought it back, time and time again. Ohmgee, talk about dedication! Would that mean that Azrael was what? Some sort of final boss? A last ditch 'Okay, you wanna fuck with Death, fine! Here's a tornado!' asshole move? Okay, sure, maybe, but both of them lived through the storm. Why would Death give up? Unless…_

The flaws in this first theory quickly became apparent: if this was a game of one-upsmanship, did that mean that Chloe and Max Price-Caulfield spent the entirety of their lives together constantly beating back one apocalyptic ending after another, winding and rewriting time for decades in order to prevent absolute disaster? If so, how did Chloe survive her final ten years, once she was bereft of Max's protection? Not to mention the time they spent apart in their early twenties.

The storm that destroyed the original town of Arcadia Bay, when viewed in the context of history, carried a note of finality. The old, rotting, financially struggling fishing village was swept away, and the new city that rose in its place was curiously blessed with vigorous prosperity and development that continued on through to the modern day. Arcadia Bay became a model community for many in the Pacific Northwest to emulate. More than a few scholars took note of the Bay's swiftly shifting fortunes; in 2048, for instance, a particularly poetic historian once colorfully dubbed Azrael 'The Phoenix's Scourge'.

What if instead of the narrative of 'Girl vs. the Universe', where Max breaks reality and becomes an abomination of nature, the story behind the scenes was something more akin to: A Power in the Universe wants Chloe Price dead, but Another Power in the Universe wants her to live. So it gives Max Caulfield time powers in order to keep Chloe alive. Alive long enough to achieve a certain destiny. And in the end, the two of them were a small part of some fantastic proxy battle, one that culminated in the tragedy of October 11th, 2013. A final, ultimate conflict, but one that left the Price-Caulfields and the town of Arcadia Bay changed for the better, continuing on with their happier yet still largely mundane existence.

The notion felt strange, almost like the thought arose from someplace outside his own mind. The idea of Elder Gods playing grand chess games with people's lives for purposes unknowable by mortal men was completely beyond all reasonable belief.

 _But until this morning, the idea of having psychometry and reading memories from books that never age was beyond all reasonable belief, too._

After the storm, Chloe Price-Caulfield quickly grew into an extraordinary woman, one who played several small but incredibly important roles in bettering not only Arcadia Bay as its mayor, but the entire United States of America as Congresswoman and Senator; hell, an argument could be made that those actions also improved the lot of many people worldwide, to boot.

William closed his eyes, and for a moment, the image of a blue butterfly filled his mind. The blue morpho, the one that his great-grandmother paused to take a picture of. It flapped its wings once…

...and then it struck him.

His great-grandfather was herself like that butterfly. A flap of gentle wings that grew into a massive tipping point for a storm of change. The ineffable shift of a few flakes of snow, a bare thimbleful of water, the straw that broke the camel's back; tiny things on their own, but ultimately responsible for the titanic avalanche, collapse or flood. He could barely begin to fathom what the city, what the country, or indeed, the entire world would be like today if she had died at age nineteen, bleeding out from a gunshot wound in the bathroom, instead of surviving and then rising up to prominence.

He clutched at his head and groaned. Part of him begged to stop, to just put the book away forever and never look at it again. To never tell another soul about it. He suddenly felt like the protagonist in a Lovecraft novel, the kind whose sanity slowly frays as they acquire knowledge of truths the human mind wasn't meant to behold. He was becoming increasingly concerned that reading through this journal was opening his mind up to an even greater meta-story; one that he couldn't begin to understand, not without completely losing himself.

 _But it's too late…_

The trap was sprung the moment he picked the damn thing up.

There was no way he could turn back now.

If he was damned, then he was already past the point of no return. He could walk through the fire, and one of two things would happen: he would be consumed by the flames, with nothing in his mind left but ash, or he would emerge strengthened, like tempered steel from a blacksmith's forge.

 _Ooooohkay Will. Maybe you're getting a little over the top here, aff?_

He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and realized he could do this. He would be okay. He thought back on his great-grandmother. The things she'd already seen, with only a day in her story still left to go, the worst yet to come. And the story that she played her part in afterwards; the long, happy life, filled with love, success, and a peaceful death in her sleep.

 _She must have wondered the same thing I did. Felt the same helplessness. Like her mind was extra-cray, and she was toto-cursed. But she got through it. She survived. She won. And if she can do that, then someone with that same blood in his veins has a decent shot at walking through whatever this is, and coming out alright at the other side too! I mean, it's just the past. It happened then; it's not happening now. Really, there's nothing to be afraid of._

He almost actually believed that last thought.

There had to be a reason for all of this. A point to it. Why now, why _him_? Why was he the one to find the journal that his grandmother somehow missed after all this time? Why was he the one to read it, and not her? Rachel was Max's daughter, her most direct kin. It made more sense for her to have been the one to make these discoveries.

Her. Not him.

There was a point to all of this, even if he couldn't understand it yet. He had to have faith that much was true, above all else.

He took a few deep breaths and slowly forced them out. As the last rays of light gave way to the inevitability of twilight, he realized it was going to be a long night ahead. A glass of milk, a quick meal, and a couple neo-modafinil tablets to keep him awake and functional were all he needed to prepare himself. He knew that the next time he returned to the journal, he would see the story of That Particular Week In October all the way through to the bitter end.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** Whew. That...that was a fucking slog. I suspect that may, oddly enough, end up being the most difficult chapter in the series to write. This, or possibly the next one. Not that it was difficult emotionally, so much as it was hard to make the words come out. You're writing, and at the same time, you're going "This is crap, this is shit, this is trash. It would be so much easier to just give up, or put it up on the shelf and come back to it years later, Mark Twain style." I mean, I seriously understand sometimes why Huck Finn took so long for Twain to write, and why the ending got so weird. Granted, I've also been completely swamped at work, and my allergies were making me feel miserable for a while, but that seems to be resolving for the moment.

The nice thing though, is that as I'm combing through and editing it, is that it isn't nearly as crappy as I was lead to believe. Some of the parts are actually not bad. I did make the mistake of actually listening to One More Kiss, Dear as I was writing about it, though.

So the whole bit, with the "revelation" being made to William about "Universal Powers" is left over material I originally planned to use in the epilogue of Grande Dame, where Max would explain it all to Chloe...obviously, I didn't go in that direction, because it felt to expositional at the time, and I'd already more or less made up my mind to someday write a sequel, so better to leave it for a time and place where the reader still has to wonder if it's actually the truth, or mayyyybe William is just starting to go a little loco in la cabesa.

(And don't ask me, I'm not certain either :D)

Anyhow, I'm sad to say that it may be a good month or two until my next chapter. I have a vacation to Iceland coming up, plus work is just going to get crazier and crazier. We're more than halfway done, I imagine, so it's just a matter of getting to the inevitable ending.

Oh! One last bit. Notice I have a new profile avatar? Thanks **LonesomeBard,** who combined two of my favorite things (Max Payne and Life is Strange) into one Black Swan-inspired work of art! He actually won acclaim from the LiSFans Twitter group, who proclaimed it "Fan Art of the Day" a few days ago. So give him a round of applause and check out his story, Saving Rachel Amber. :D


	7. Chapter 7

_She comes to, her bound wrists throbbing dully with pain, keeping the beat in time with the throbbing in her head. She cries out repeatedly, begging for help, and is met with indifferent silence. She doesn't think it possible to feel more hopeless and demoralized…_

 _...until she spots Victoria, passed out on the floor. Hands tied together._

" _My fault! I was trying to warn her. About Nathan, so...shit! Of course! She ran off to Jefferson for protection. Right into the arms of the asshole trying to kill her."_

 _She needs to know more; she requires context. On a nearby cart, she spies a picture of herself, one she doesn't remember being taken. Glazed, half-conscious eyes staring ahead without seeing, barely aware of the world. The moment itself was expertly framed, all the better to highlight her vulnerability, the silver of the duct tape glinting sharply, like steel manacles, in the crisp monochromatic slice of time that Jefferson so skillfully managed to capture._

 _She sends herself back through that photo, mindful of the consequences. But she needs information. She_ must _know more._

" _The slightly unconscious model is often the most open and honest. No vanity, no posing, just...pure expression."_

 _Despite her clear head in the present, the drugs running through her system in her past self make a muddle of her focus, viciously dampening her ability to think or act. She's aware of Jefferson's voice, drenched with excitement and dark inspiration._

" _Oh Christ, look at that perfect face!"_

 _She shifts to the side, and is rewarded with a smack on her leg and furious condemnation._

" _Hold that pose. Stay still!"_

 _He continues to rant softly, expression his 'admiration' for her purity, how unlike Rachel she is. Still, she tries to struggle against the cottony straightjacket holding her mind in place. More rough, furious shouts follow. She complies thoughtlessly, and again, there is nothing but silence, occasionally broken by his mutterings, punctuated by the click of a camera._

" _It's just...too bad you're so goddamn nosy, Max! But this room is under 24/7 surveillance, so all I had to do was text you from Nathan's phone, and you fell right into my hands."_

 _She's aware now. Barely. Just enough to remember that this has already happened, just enough for her to recall now, when she couldn't then. Her critical mistake, her fatal hubris._

" _You really should have focused on your schoolwork, not 'private detecting' with your little friend."_

" _Chloe." she breathes out, not meaning to. A pure reaction. A muted stab of despair slow-burns through her, icy hot._

" _Right. Yeah, I'm sorry I killed...that Nathan killed her in self-defense. But she had a troubled history like most Arcadia Bay dropouts. No one will be surprised, or care."_

 _He pauses, and she can almost hear the tiny smile of delight in his tone._

" _Though I promise, people will care when you die tonight, Max. I wasn't lying when I said you had a gift."_

 _It goes on like this, a minute...an hour? It's hard for her to tell. But she's starting to successfully claw against the fuzz restraining her awareness. Slowly but surely, it's getting easier to think._

 _Jefferson notices as well._

" _Perhaps a new dose might calm you down."_

 _She begs piteously, trying to summon even a glimmer of mercy from the depths of his black and twisted soul. She fails, without surprise._

" _Now stay still, or this will hurt - much."_

 _Like a bottle under far too much pressure, the notes of menace in his voice trigger something deep inside. Raw. Primal. She instinctively kicks out, in sharp, clear defiance. She doesn't know what good it will do - probably nothing - but it gives her the sense of control she's otherwise sorely lacking._

" _Stupid bitch!"_

 _She hears him cry out in frustration, and in the back of her fogged mind, she feels a curious discontinuity. A change in the air, a sense that she's zigged when previously she zagged._

 _Maybe it means nothing. Or possibly everything._

 _It's enough to consume her thoughts; she knows he's still talking, but is passes through her, failing to register. She doesn't have much time for further contemplation, before Jefferson is on her again, needle in hand._

" _Remember my number one rule. Always take the shot."_

 _When she comes back to herself in the present moment she glances around, desperate to find some change, some little imperfection, some crack that's manifested, giving her another way out._

 _She can't help but smile to herself, even if but for the briefest of moments, as she spots it: the change. Another way out._

 _Maybe. But maybe not._

 _On the other hand, what else does she have to lose?_

 _Always take the shot._

* * *

William pulled back from the memory, and snapped the book closed. His heart was pounding, bile stinging the back of his throat, hands shaking. Experiencing the palpable, existential fear that Max endured during a captivity that history never recorded, and thus was unlikely to have actually occurred, affected him deeply. He'd never experienced anything even remotely close to the terror visited upon his great-grandmother. His was a charmed, quiet life by comparison.

He'd never felt more alive.

And he never wanted to feel that way again. Not like this.

He forced himself to skim through the events recounted by the journal, working with feverish intensity to keep any of the moments from pulling him under. He tried to focus on the words alone, and ignore the images and sounds they forced into his mind. Tried to dispassionately witness as reality folded in upon itself, layer by layer, as Max tore through the fabric of existence. He could still taste the triumph and despair, as freedom and reward in San Francisco turned to bitter ashes, the tornado destroying the Bay. And then the intense relief as she finally, after many attempts, managed to guide David Madsen into taking just the right action to stop Mark Jefferson.

He was deeply unnerved at the break in the narrative, coming upon, without warning, the burned and ruined pages; how they whisper-screamed with maddening insect chitters in his head, a visible scar left in the fabric of existence. He pushed away from it as quickly as he could, and continued on, reading of how Max discovered Nathan's tearful confession and apology, her attempts to help and make a positive difference as she made her way to the diner. And the picture in Warren's collection that would conclusively set events onto their fixed course at last, the way they were ultimately recorded.

He was not at all prepared for what happened next; the twisted, insane, maddening words and designs scribed with hateful intent. Images flashed in his mind, too quick to fully process:

Whole flocks of birds smashed into a classroom window

Max worked stealthily through the halls ignoring the shades of friends and foes alike, who all were arrayed against her.

Her blossoming feelings for Chloe being twisted against her, as her dark side fed gluttonously on her jealousy and self-loathing, before sitting in judgement before her in the diner, painting the worst possible picture of everyone and everything she held dear. Including herself.

William didn't know if his great-grandmother was merely dreaming all these things, or if she was somehow swallowed up into a pocket of Hell itself. And he didn't want answers to any of it.

At last, he finally came to the moment of truth, where Azrael set violently upon the old town of Arcadia Bay. History recorded that Chloe Price and Max Caulfield sought the protection of higher ground at Lighthouse Point, where they were forced to watch helplessly as the heart of the town was sadistically shred to splinters. But now, he was about to discover truths his great-grandparents had long since taken to the grave. Was Max somehow directly responsible for the tornado, or was it simply a tragedy of failing to act on a prophetic vision received a week earlier?

William was certain the answers were here. The journal pages practically thrummed in his hands, shimmering in the corners of his vision with the weight of memories begging to be re-lived. There was something different about it; a sense of criticality. He knew that if he slipped through all the way, and experienced the memories from his great-grandmother's full perspective, something would change inside. Whatever he discovered, it would leave him transformed.

But he also knew there was no going back…

" _Max...it's time."_

 _Her heart is breaking at this terrible choice she's being forced to make; at this crossroads she finds herself astride. Chloe is so certain that she is the catalyst, the fly in the ointment. That she'd failed to keep her proper appointment with Death, a week and a lifetime ago. She was absolutely convinced that all Max had to do was go back and let her die._

 _To die alone. Afraid. Left to bleed out upon the cold tile floor, The troubled high school dropout who came to her tragic but unsurprising end._

 _It's more than she can bear. To give up the incredible week the two of them have shared. The bridges they've built, the axes they've buried. It feels wrong; so terribly wrong! She had the vision of the tornado before she saved Chloe, so what...what if Chloe's plan was the wrong one?_

 _She gives voice to her misgivings and says, "Chloe. I'm so, so sorry, I don't want to do this!"_

 _There has to be another way. Life couldn't be this cruel, this twisted. It couldn't truly expect her to chose between the the lives of hundreds, of thousands in the town below, and the life of the woman she…_

 _...she…_

 _What was Chloe to her now?_

 _She thinks she knows the answer, even if she doesn't want to admit it, not all the way. Her vision narrows, and she remembers a time like this, forced to choose between killing Chloe and letting her live._

 _There were so many things that were the same, between both moments in time._

" _No!" she thinks to herself. "Not the same, not at all! Chloe can live! She can have so many good years._ We _can have those years together! We can be…"_

 _She's jerked out of her revere, as Chloe turns those soulful, determined eyes upon her, and calls out, voice calm despite the storm howling all around them, "I know, Max, but we have to save everyone, okay?"_

 _Her heart aches as she looks up at her...her Chloe. So strong, so brave. There is a serenity about her now, of a kind Max doesn't think she's ever witnessed from her before. From a deep, and instinctive place, she can see it…_

 _...Chloe has accepted this. Even embraced it. It's clear she doesn't want to die, but she's completely prepared to do so. To lay her head down on the chopping block, and await the executioner's axe, all for a town that she hated, that hated her in return._

 _She feels the shame burning through her, at the selfish desire to keep her alive. She groans mournfully in disbelief, that she honestly considered the otherwise unthinkable: sacrificing an entire town for…_

 _...for her friend._

 _...for her...her beloved._

 _She closes her eyes, bows her head. Tears mingle with the driving rain._

" _And you'll make those fuckers pay for what they did to Rachel!"_

 _She nods furiously at this. Of course she will! She'd do anything and everything Chloe could ask of her at this moment!_

" _Being together this week…" Chloe begins, her voice cracking with the strain of emotion. "It was the best farewell gift I could have hoped for. You're my hero, Max!"_

" _And you're mine, Chloe Price." she thinks to herself._

 _Then comes the bravest thing she's ever done in her life. Stepping up, cupping the other girls face. Driven to communicate through expression alone, through her eyes, the depths of what she was feeling in her soul. The joy that Chloe brought into her life, the great passionate fire that was beginning to burn in her heart. A fire that would soon, and forevermore, be brutally quenched._

 _She can't stand it; she kisses her, properly this time. No more teasing dares, no more awkward, embarrassed flirtations. It is not a thing born of frenetic, insatiable physical desire; no, this is her, Max Caulfield, naked and vulnerable, open and free, telling her dearest companion - her other self, the one she allowed to slip through her fingers for five long, pointless years, that she was never going to be whole again. Not for the rest of her life. There would always be a gaping void the blunette once filled. She's relieved, and overjoyed, and simultaneously crushed to have her affections returned. She wants to believe that this kiss is more than Chloe going through the motions; she needs to believe that the other girl feels the same way._

 _The moment passes. Chloe steps back, and cries out, her fear now burbling close to the surface._

" _I'll always love you. Now get out of here, please. Do it, before I freak! And Max Caulfield...don't you forget about me!"_

" _Never." she cries out. She doesn't even have to think about trying to keep that promise. This night will forever be seared into her mind. Every night, when she closes her eyes for bed, she will see this moment, haunting her forever._

 _She turns away, picture of the butterfly in hand. Back to the girl's stall on Monday, back to where this all started, to end it at the beginning. Even with Chloe's genuine bravado giving her strength, she still fervently prays for an eleventh hour miracle. A loophole. A deus ex machina._

 _Anything._

 _Everything._

" _Please!" she cries out in her mind._

 _But there's nothing. The responsibility is hers and hers alone. To do what must be done. Even if it kills her inside, leaving her a hollow, broken-hearted shell of a person afterwards._

 _She focuses on the picture in her hands, fiddling with the mental knobs, trying to focus...not so much on the picture as a physical object, but what it represents: a place in time, and in space. A fixed point to send her mind back to, an earlier version of herself. Forging a connection, taking over, and changing what was now the present, for good or for ill._

 _She's so close now. With determination, she pushes ahead, as a sense of depersonalization overtakes her, swallowing her whole. It isn't Max Caulfield doing this; it's someone else. A character in a novel, a heroine in a movie, an avatar in a computer game. She's as helpless as any audience member, condemned to passively watch events she has no control over unfold into terrible reality._

 _Any second now...so close. The mental clutch is just about to catch, and then she'll be transported back. Will she have the courage to sit back and let it all happen? Maybe...but maybe not. She wonders, as the nucleus of another plan starts to take shape._

" _Maybe, when Nathan starts to pull out the gun, I could get his attention. Maybe he'll…"_

 **No! This isn't what happens! Dont!**

 _She blinks. Startled. There's a voice. Somewhere, in her mind? Inside it, but outside as well_. _She doesn't notice at first, her concentration breaking so cleanly and completely. The roaring engine of her power quenching, wasted energies screaming out into nothingness. Somewhere, inside her brain, it feels like the popping and grinding of gears, smashing together every which way._

 _She was a hairsbreadth away from making the leap, and halted the process at just the wrong moment._

 _A few more seconds pass, the span of heartbeats. At last, she consciously realizes something has gone wrong. She wasn't able to go through with it? Something deep inside her, from the darkest recesses of her mind screamed out, betraying her._

" _Wait. No…" she breathes out to herself. "I have to...I have to do this!"_

 _A gust of wind blows hard from from the west. She struggles to hold onto the picture, clutched precariously between her thumb and forefinger. She stares dispassionately at the photo, as a calculating realization blossoms in her mind._

 _It would be so easy...so easy to just let it…_

 _Another burst, harder than before, and the picture is wrenched free of her grasp, whipped along by the tumult of the maelstrom, until it swiftly disappears into the dark of night. Instinctively, she reaches out to retrieve it, to wind back the last few seconds. To return it to her hand. To correct the terrible mistake she's made!_

 _But it's no use. Somehow, at this critical juncture, her supernatural ability has at last abandoned her. Did it malfunction when she failed to make the leap, like a physical mechanism breaking down under stress and improper use? Or did the Powers That Be judge her in her moment of weakness, find her unworthy, and then decide to punish Arcadia Bay for her own stupid, human frailty?_

" _Come back." she croaks out, blankly. "Please….come back. I need…"_

 _Suddenly, she is lashed between two opposing poles: one, of her utter relief - relief that Chloe's imminent death has been at least postponed - the other, the terrible realization that an entire town is now doomed to be savagely scourged because of her fear and selfishness. It pulls her apart, until she reaches a breaking point. Her mind fractures as she watches the tornado approach the outskirts of downtown at last, transforming everything it comes across into a million broken pieces._

 _She falls to her knees, clutching her face in her hands. She weeps deeply, at what she's done._

 _Nothing will ever be the same. Nothing will ever be okay._

 _Protective arms wrap around her._

" _Max. Max!" Chloe calls out._

 _Someone speaks, in a voice that sounds like her own: "Oh! Oh God...oh Go-o-o-d! Chloe! I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry! I...I lost…"_

 _She tries to reach out. One last time. Desperate to fix this. It tears her up inside, the realization that Chloe needed to her to do one thing. One little thing, and she screwed it up!_

" _Please work! Please please please! I'm begging…" she pleads internally. "Please don't hate me, Chloe...please don't…"_

 _Again, the power fails to respond._

 _And now, there is nothing left but the two of them. And the storm._

 _Together, they watch in anguished silence, huddling close against each other as the tornado tears through Arcadia Bay._

* * *

The images in his mind cut out abruptly, like an ancient piece of cellulose film snapping under the strain of hot lights and too much time.

William gasped sharply, glancing at the journal still in his hands, and then tossed it away from him, as if he'd been burned, or possibly bit.

"What…" he gasped out to himself, backing away. "Whattyeff? What was that?! Hell just happened?"

He tried to process everything he'd seen. He fell down onto the ground in an awkward sitting position as he attempted to sort it out.

" _Okay...okay. So they were convinced..._ parnaana _was convinced that not dying in that bathroom was the cause of the storm. That it created some kind of angry time paradox? And_ parnaani _was supposed to go back and what...just watch? Let her die that time? Wipe out hours and days of events that only she would bear witness to, alone in her mind? But she couldn't go through with it…"_

No.

It dawned on him. Something happened.

Something much more. He couldn't help but feel…

"Ohm-gee...did I? I did...something."

Up to this point, when William allowed himself to fully experience the memories imprinted within the journal, his entire sense of self was subsumed. He essentially _became_ Max Caulfield; there was no separate consciousness tagging along for the ride, no William Price who was sitting in a passenger seat somewhere, able to think or react to what was playing out, as if merely watching in some great mental movie theater.

Something changed this time. Whether it was the constant use of his power over the past few hours, or possibly the incredibly shocking realization of what was about to occur, something caused him to break through this time, and allowed him to become an independent actor. A distinct voice with its own agenda and agency, able to influence, however subtly, the person whom the memory belonged to.

Even if just for a moment.

He shook his head, rubbing his arms as chills began to lick at his flesh. "N-no. No! No way, that's impossible. It can't…that was...only a memory. It was all in the past!" He quickly rose to his feet, then started pacing nervously.

He didn't want to believe it, but the truth of it burned with savage, inescapable clarity in his mind. Somehow, he cried out. Somehow, Max Caulfield reacted. And it was that moment of reaction that created a chain reaction.

 _She...she was gonna do it. I mean, really do it! She was gonna toto take it all back. Make_ parnaana _stop existing, make...me…_

He stared out dumbly, glancing through the window, the velvet curtain of darkness finally having descended over the town. The lights of the houses and streetlamps twinkled, cold but inviting all the same.

 _But that's ridiculous! I acted like I was somehow in danger. Like if I didn't take action, history would change, and she would have jumped back. That's crazy! Toto cray! Of course she didn't do it, because I'm here! I exist. If she and_ parnaana _never got married, never had a child, then that child would never have had kids, and then I wouldn't be here! But I am! I didn't do anything! I didn't change.."_

...but what if he did?

He gripped his temples, his stomach churning, roiling with sickening sensation as a realization practically forced itself into his frontal lobes.

What if Max Caulfield was originally meant to sacrifice her one true love? To go back and sit there helplessly as Nathan Prescott's bullet found its way again into the blunette's gut. Powerless to prevent Chloe from quickly bleeding out to her death.

 _But she didn't take that path!_

True...but what if she was always meant to.

What if…

 _...NO! That's...that's not right. That can't be the answer! It can't be!_

William choked back great lungfuls of air, wholly unfamiliar with the uncontrollable sensations of panic taking over his body, making his head swim, his limbs weak. It wasn't all that long ago, in his philosophy class, that the subject of temporal mechanics was discussed at length. And one concept, above all others, blazed in his awareness.

 _Predestination paradox._

William existed, only so that he could arrive at this moment. Everything between the destruction of the old town and what was here and now, almost a century later, occurred simply to ensure his own existence. All for the purpose of interfering with Max's attempts to sacrifice Chloe.

He had, in effect, created himself. Quite unintentionally.

He didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't make himself reject the answer, try as he might. It made too much sense. To refuse to believe it now would be akin to trying to deny the existence of The Divine Itself, after having just stared right into Its face.

 _And isn't that what's just happened?!_

He leaned against the window pane, glancing out, his eyes suddenly filled with fear.

 _Does...does that mean...I'm responsible? If it wasn't Max who failed to stop the tornado, if she always meant to, and I screwed it all up, does that mean…?_

It was him.

He was utterly certain of it.

It didn't matter whether that was the actual, objective truth of the events of that night or not.

It didn't matter that Max came within milliseconds of carrying out her appointed task. It didn't matter that perhaps she was desperately searching for a way out of her predicament or that she apparently took hold of the opportunity that he presented her with. And It didn't matter that she continued to hesitate, that he could feel the struggle warring in her mind, that whether she was conscious of it or not, she was looking for any reasonable excuse to completely fail, after having been merely delayed.

Especially when the winds began to gust hard and fast.

Because in his mind, William Price bore the full and total blame for each and every death that happened on the night of October 11th, 2013. Every life ruined, every family member in mourning, every child striped of one or more parents, every family that had pieces torn from it. Millions of dollars of destruction. Fear, panic, depredation. The lives of so many ruined, either through physical trauma, mental distress...or both!

He was responsible for the guilt that no doubt ate away at his poor great-grandmother, for the rest of her life. For the countless, near-infinite paths set, from that one single moment. Everyone who existed, who wasn't supposed to. For everything, good and bad, that occurred, in the aftermath of the old town's destruction.

In that moment, he stood utterly alone, apart from the rest of humanity, marked by his terrible crime. Like cursed Caine, exiled to roam the land of Nod until the end of days.

It was too much for him to even come close to handling.

He collapsed to the ground, curled up into a fetal ball, and began to sob piteously. He closed his eyes tightly and waited.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

He waited for an end that he was absolutely certain, down to his core, was about to meet him. A justice denied, strict and absolute, waiting so patiently through the years for this moment. Waiting for him to commit this transgression, at long last. To fall into the trap that he had been so cruelly destined for, to punish him for springing it.

He cried and waited for something. Anything. He only knew that the form of his executioner could be as subtle and surreal as his own sanity shattering, until he felt compelled to throw himself out the window and fall to his death. Or as concrete and external as the Grim Reaper itself materializing, scythe ready to descend upon his helpless form.

He cried and waited…

...for an end that never came.

* * *

The first gently creeping rays of dawn's light fell across his face as William stirred, uncertain as to whether he'd fallen asleep or outright passed out from sheer panic. He opened his eyes and found his vision blurry; everything looked fuzzy and indistinct. Silhouetted in the sun, he could just make out someone kneeling before him. A young woman, with short cut aburn hair, and a familiar pattern of freckles. She was holding his hand, gently stroking the top of his palm in reassuring circles.

"It's okay." she whispered, more mouthing than actually giving voice to the words, then smiled down at him, with tender, motherly affection and pride.

In that moment, William felt calm and at peace. In the twilight between waking and dreaming, he didn't think to actively question any of it. His eyes fell across the pink t-shirt she wore, the one bearing a single word - Jane - next to a picture of a deer. She seemed incredibly familiar to him, and by the time he'd roused enough to respond, she was suddenly gone.

The shock of it jerked him the rest of the way to complete wakefulness, and he spent a whole minute looking for any signs of the woman, convinced she was here, but unable to find any footprints in the dust that would have corroborated a second person coming up into the old attic.

His gaze fell upon the journal, face down and pages splayed open. Gingerly, he picked it up, afraid that some new and fresh horror awaited if he read further. But he couldn't help himself. He was, however, able to keep his ability from digging up the memories imprinted into the tear stained paper and ink.

 _October 12th, 2013._

 _What have I done? Oh God...what have I done?_

 _I'm still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong. Everything that happened was so intense, and my memories are all one big blur. I know Chloe wanted me to go back, all the way to Monday, back to where this began, and let her die. She was convinced that was the only way to stop the tornado, the reason why everything was happening. She made me promise to go back and fix it all._

 _And I….I remember kissing her. Because my heart was breaking, because I wanted to have something with her. I don't know what yet. But I knew it was nothing I could have once she was dead, and I was the only one left who remembered what really happened._

 _Something went wrong, I don't know…_

 _...I couldn't go through with it._

 _I'm so sorry, Chloe! I couldn't go through with it! I almost did it, just like you wanted me to, but something in my brain? My heart? Yelled at me, made me stop just before it was too late. And the wind starting blowing really hard, enough so that I lost the picture._

 _And then my powers were gone. Thanks a ton, Reality. Way to leave me hanging. Fuck you._

 _But I sit here, and I wonder, did I_ want _to lose that picture? Was I hoping something would happen? It's killing me inside, to think that I could be so weak, so selfish. And I really can't remember, I'm really not sure what happened, what I really did up there! I went nuts after that, I barely remember trying to rewind the time, bring back the picture...and then Chloe came, and she held me._

 _She held me all night long and told me it was going to be okay. I was so convinced I was going to die! That, like, life or God or whatever was going to strike me dead for killing all those people! I was so scared, but Chloe held me, and told me not to be afraid._

 _But maybe I should have died! Because all of it is on me now. All the lives lost, all of the town destroyed. When we woke up, and the sun was shining, I couldn't believe it, how calm and peaceful it was, in the wake of the storm. I wanted to leave Arcadia Bay behind forever, to drive on and never look back._

 _But Chloe , she was the strong one again. I think she was almost ready to give up as well, but she stopped. Insisted on looking for survivors. And she's been...amazing. This whole new person. Finding people, and giving them hope, and holding everything together until the rescue workers came. I always knew she was capable of so much more. There's a reason I let her be the Pirate Captain, why I was happy to play First Mate. Because she can rise to the occasion. She just needs the right time, the right place._

 _I don't know what I'm going to do; I don't know if I can live with this, what I've done, and all the people I've done it to. I can't even think about it right now it's too painful. All I_ do _know is that I need to be with Chloe. I need to move forward and ahead, just like she is. I need to find a way to make all of this...make it matter. Make it up._

 _Oh God._

 _I'm so sorry!_

Slowly, he closed the book with a sense of finality, certain he would never open it up and read anything inside ever again. A few fragments of image escaped, and in his mind's eye, he could see her, sitting on a small cot, wrapped up in an emergency blanket, numbly looking out over the ruins of Arcadia Bay, totally in the grip of a shock that would never subside for days, possibly weeks to come.

He thought back on everything he'd just experienced.

 _The events of that night were ancient - literally toto 'tique history. I was just a victim, and I think_ parnaani _was, too. But...what do I do? What am I supposed to do? Go back? Fix everything? Is life trying to tell me I shouldn't exist?!_

And what would that accomplish? If he went back, experienced the memory one more time, but found the strength to not interfere - or possibly even encourage Max to go through with her plan to sacrifice Chloe? Was there any guarantee the new outcome would ultimately be preferable? Much would be regained, but what if it all that was lost was what was also holding Arcadia Bay back?

And then there were the million, billion infinite changes that would take place, over a whole century. Chloe Price herself, as mayor, then Congresswoman, and finally Senator, strode across the course of history like a colossus. And then there were hundreds, thousands, even millions of people, all making their insignificantly seeming contributions, that were in turn like the butterfly wing beats driving the oncoming storm.

Dare he consider tearing the previous century down in one fell swoop, and letting the pieces reorganize themselves anew?

 _No. It's….it's too damn late for all that now._

He wasn't ever going to be the same again, but he couldn't live in fear. He couldn't let guilt destroy him. Because, unlike his great-grandmother, he knew what happened after that night, so many years afterwards. Chloe and Max came to terms with their wounds and shared trauma. Arcadia Bay rose from the ashes to become a thing of beauty and envy. Instead of going gentle into that good night, its people raged against the dying of their town's light. They raged, and were inspired, and strode forth into the future. With determination and tenacity, they built themselves a new and better Arcadia Bay, and made it a shining city on the hill.

Who was he to undo all of those things? To take away their achievements?

"Move forward" he breathed out. "That's what she said. Move forward."

The only question left was what he was going to tell his grandmother. She already knew he was working on recovering the journal.

 _But I could change it around. Maybe tear out a few pages, here and there. Or I could lie. Tell her I couldn't recover it after all, it was too old, too damaged. She'd never suspect, not really._

He wondered what Max would have done.

Then realized he knew the answer all along.

 _She wanted her daughter to know the truth. And in the end, even though she tried to hide it, it sounds like_ parnaana _wants to tell her as well._

There was more he'd have to deal with, in this brand new day. His advisor was going to be expecting a status report in a few hours, and Will would either have to come up with a convincing lie to explain why he was off to a slow start, or otherwise take his well deserved lumps. It wasn't important though, and he'd figure it out later.

Tucking the journal under his arm, he strode towards the door with purpose and determination. By the end of the morning, he knew that he'd no longer be alone in this. And perhaps a secret shared would become a burden lessened.

There was one thing though. Something that struck him, gave him pause as he stood at the top of the stairs.

Parnaani _lost her powers, sounds like forever. So how come I still have mine?_

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** Hey there gang. Sorry for the 86 straight days (or so) that it took for me to put out a new chapter. I have been going through some incredibly intense, life-altering shit, both in my home life, my deep personal life, and my job. All at the same time, so you can imagine how difficult it was to find the time, let alone the motivation, to write. Especially when this was a critical chapter, one that I needed to get right, but also had to deal with a LOT of what I've come to despise the most: scene retelling. You can really see a lot of my own authorial impatience with it in William here, but if I were to try and document all his reactions in great detail to all the crazy things that happen in Episode 5, I'd never get done. Pretty much everyone reading this story knows what happened, so why belabor the point?

A shout out to **LonesomeBard** who did some beta reading for this chapter, and made a couple of very helpful suggestions for near the end. I've also had a hell of a lot of fun brainstorming some stuff with him for stories of his - it was exactly the sort of thing I needed to take my mind off my troubles as of late. And a general "Hello!" once again to all the new people who have been reading, faving, following and reviewing. Right as our little community here was starting to slumber, Before the Storm seems to have given it a shot in the arm, and whipped up a whole new interest in this marvelous little universe.

I'm hoping not to have such a long delay for the next chapter, but I can't make any promises. As I mentioned before, some major changes have happened in my personal life, and work is seeing the next phase being completed of a massive two to three year project so...anyhow. Thanks for hanging in there and waiting patiently.

Have a great weekend!


	8. Chapter 8

William descended the stairs with measured delay; he needed time to gather his thoughts. More importantly, he had to decide on the best way to convince his grandmother that what he was saying was the absolute truth. After ten minutes of careful consideration and planning, he was about as ready as he'd ever be.

 _Taking a chance here...making a few assumptions I'd toto wish I could test better first. Might end up looking like a cray person when I make the demonstration, but I know I can figure_ something _out_. _One way or the other._

He found Rachel already awake in the kitchen, dressed in her nightgown and putting the finishing touches on a simple breakfast of toast and eggs. She smiled kindly at him as he walked in, and pushed a plateful onto the small island in the center of the room.

"Hey, there's my history professor-in-training." She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Morning. Did you sleep well?" She paused, and then smirked. "Or did you sleep at all?" Her eyes darted down to the journal in his hands.

"Ohm-gee, is that it?" she asked, with a rising note of excitement in her voice. "Can I see? Is it safe to read? Shouldn't you be wearing - I don't know - gloves or carrying it around in a sealed box?" She blushed "Sorry, I shouldn't be telling you how to do your work, I'm just very excited!"

Slowly breathing in through his nose, William held it up and said, "It's in surprisingly good condition, given it's age. Better than you might imagine. And yes, you can read it, you totally _should_. It's just…" He paused, weighing his next few words judiciously before continuing. "I want you to understand, it's toto important that you believe what's in this journal. That it's real, that it all actually happened."

Rachel blinked, obviously not sure where this was going. "William, this is my mother we're talking about. What possible reason would I have not to believe her own written words? Especially in something as private and intimate as her journal?"

He chuckled a couple times and said, "I know. I know you say that, buuuut…" he glanced around stalling for time, as he tried to figure out where to start. His eyes alit on one of the kitchen cabinets. "Tell you what. I need you to go and pull a glass out. Something plain, something no one had any sentimental attachment to, or fondness for."

Rachel cracked a lopsided smile, "Wait. Is this...magic? Is this what you've been taking up in your spare time?" She laughed liltingly and added, "Do you need a deck of playing cards or something? I'm sure I can get the replicator to spit something out in a hurry."

William blinked, cursing himself for not having realized how much better that idea was. "A deck of cards? No. But a drinking tumbler, yeah. Toto aff. Let's do that. The cleaner and newer, the better."

Rachel gave him a skeptical side-eye glance, as she walked over to the kitchen replicator and quickly programmed the parameters for a simple eight ounce drinking vessel. She attempted to add a few artistic embellishments to it, but William quickly stopped her.

"No. This has to be - uh - a _tabula rasa_. 'Hellza basic', I think is what you oldbies used to say, right?" He smirked, holding up his hands in defense as Rachel playfully smacked his shoulder. A couple minutes later, the fabrication was complete, and she pulled the glass out from the object printer.

"This better be good, young man." she warned, albeit softening her words with a smile.

He nodded rapidly and said, "Okay. Here's the crazy part. I need you to hold it. Focus on the glass. And while you're doing that, I need you to think of a number - ah - say any number between one and one-thousand. Oh! And a color. Anything you like. So there's no way you can say I led you or did some sort of - damnit! What's the term?" He snapped his fingers in frustration, before his weblink helpfully offered a suggestion.

"Cold reading. Yeah." He stared at his grandmother expectantly, before motioning with his hands. "Well...go on. Do that for about a minute, that'll probably be long enough."

 _I hope._

Rachel gave a dramatic roll of her eyes and muttered, "I have no idea what the payoff or punchline is going to be. You kids these days." Regardless, she turned and narrowed her eyes, staring intently into the clear, strong plastic in her hands. Precisely sixty seconds later, she handed it back, and in a bemused tone said, "Oooookay. Bejazzle me, oh _pota_ mine." She crossed her arms and waited.

William swallowed, hoping that his hunch proved right, that any object could pick up impressions and memories, and that especially fresh and new items would be particularly well suited to the task. In his haste, he hadn't thought to test his theory ahead of time, so motivated was he to bring his grandmother past the curtain, to expose her to the same revelations he'd made overnight. He took a deep breath and mentally 'read' the cup, hoping against hope he wouldn't end up looking like a complete ass.

He let out a soft sigh of relief: it was there. Soft, kind of echoy. Tinny. Like a copy of a copy of a copy of an ancient magnetic audio tape. A triumphant grin broke out across his lips.

"Six-sixty-six? Oh hah hah, toto-droll. And ultraviolet? Gleesh, _nani,_ you're in a mood. Literally, I can feel that much, the skepticism, you wondering what the scam is going to be. Good choices though, clever. You picked answers that were super unlikely to be guessed by anyone.

Whatever expression of playful, cynical indulgence Rachel wore vanished in a heartbeat.

"O-okay. Cute. Good trick. Yes, I'm impressed. So how the hell did you do that?"

He closed his eyes and then calmly replied, "Psychometrics. Literally: I read the faint memory impressions you left on this thing. With my mind"

He could see the expletive starting to form on her lips before she thought better of it. Instead, she gave a snort of laughter and said, "Yes. Ha ha! You pulled a good one on your old grandmother. For real, though; how did you do it? I promise I won't tell anyone else, but this is starting to creep me out. You know, just a little bit."

With an almost-deathly calm, he explained, "I'm absolutely serious. I don't know what happened to me, but somehow, picking this journal up and starting to read through it unlocked...I don't know what you would call it. Something, some power - some ability. And it's not just me. She could do it, too...Max, I mean. Kinda. It was different for her, but it was still a power!" He winced, hearing the increasingly frantic note in his voice.

 _Goddess Above, I sound like such a crazy person right now._

Rachel stared at him, saying nothing for a few seconds, before tilting her head, and asking, "Oh. Em. Gee. William Avinash Price, did you hack into my weblink?!"

He was immediately horrified at the accusation. "What? No!"

"Because I'll forgive it this once. It was worth it for the joke, but seriously, don't ever - "

" _Nani!_ I didn't listen in on your thoughts that way! First off, hey, it's impossible because of all the quantum encryption they use for these things...second, so supa-skeezy! I would never do that to you, or anyone, even if I could!" He was genuinely hurt for a moment, but let it pass, chalking the reaction up to his grandmother's shock.

She held up a hand in ascent, a genuine expression of regret settling over her face. "Yes. Right, I'm...sorry, kiddo. You're right, that was a low blow. But you have to admit, at the moment, you're spouting crazy nonsense here"

"Yeah. I am. You're right. But that doesn't mean it's not all true." He rubbed his thumb against his fist in frustration, then quickly said, "Look, easy test. Set your weblink to offline mode. Totally cut it off from any network. Make any object you want in the replicator. Put any memory you want on it. I'll go wait in the other room. That way, you can't say I somehow led you to think of something specific, or tapped into your brain, or...or whatever. If you do all that, and I can still tell you what you were thinking of, will you believe me?"

Blinking a few times, Rachel said, "I...just. William, maybe we should take you to…"

"Please! Just this one thing. And then read _parnani's_ journal. If you wanna take me to a psych clinic or something after all that, then fine. I'll go willingly, because I'm still not convinced I'm _not_ crazy."

He paced outside in the front yard, waiting for the better part of fifteen minutes before his grandmother finally called him back. When he returned, he found her holding something out to him. In one outstretched hand was a heavy-looking plastic orb, about the size of a baseball: a three dimensional map of the planet Venus. He reached out and took it, as she said, "I can't believe I'm actually going along with this. Probably because I figure there's no way you can just randomly guess what I was thinking of right after I made this thing, and when you finally admit you have no idea, we can…" she swallowed, and continued, "You'll either tell me how you did this trick or…"

She clearly didn't want to contemplate the alternative.

He smiled confidently, cradling the globe in both hands, easily getting a reading from it. The impression was strong, though the memory itself was far from fresh - it had the feeling of something that was being recalled from a long while back, and William let himself marvel for a few moments at how _different_ that felt, compared to a memory placed on an item as events were occurring…

 _She saunters down the hall, towards Sandeep's apartment. To see him in person, for the first time in three years._

' _It's just lunch' she thinks to herself. 'Just an old ex-boyfriend making a connection again. It's not like we parted on bad terms. We just grew apart during college.'_

 _Besides, she's already dating someone - another woman, thank you very much. Her Dad was absolutely insufferable when she first told her the news. True, she and Jessica had been a couple for about three or four months, but things were starting to heat up. Already, there was talk between them, of moving in together._

 _God knows, in San Francisco, it would make living there so much more affordable!_

 _There's a part of her that wonders if it's moving too fast, though. She's pretty sure it's not, but at the same time she can't help but wonder: why the hesitancy?_

' _It's not because Sandy and I started talking again.' she tells herself._

 _It was nothing more than a chance encounter online, a meeting in an artist's discussion group. It shouldn't have been so surprising, given their backgrounds growing up as children of known talent. Afterwards, they'd fallen back into an easy, almost daily discussion routine...and why not? It wasn't like things got weird between them, not really. It didn't keep him from working for her Dad as a campaign manager._

 _They'd just drifted apart; nothing more than that. Happens all the time in real life. Just because her parents were old childhood sweethearts didn't mean it was ever going to happen to her. Hell, It hardly happened to anyone anymore, right?_

' _So why did you bother dressing up? And putting a little more effort into your makeup than usual?' a soft voice chides in the back of her mind._

 _She was just showing off...wanted Sandy to see she was doing well for herself. That's all._

 _Nothing else._

 _So why is her heart beating faster than usual as she pushes the button to his door chime?_

 _The door slides automatically slides open, barely three seconds later. She tries not to imagine that he was standing there for God knows how long, waiting for her arrival. He's leaning against the wall, trying to look casual, but she knows him too well - quickly realizes it's nothing more than a hasty affectation._

 _He looks good. He's filled out since high school graduation. Clearly taking good care of himself, hitting the gym. The glasses are almost overly pretentious as an affectation, because who actually needs that sort of thing anymore? But that was one of the things she always...loved….about him._

 _They look at each other in the flesh, for the first time since the start of sophomore year in college, each wearing the same wide, goofy smile._

" _Hi." she breathily says._

" _H-hey" he replies._

 _She's not ready to admit it to herself yet, right there and then, but she knows she's not going to be moving in with Jessica after all._

William opened his eyes, smiling with satisfaction, as he handed the globe back to his grandmother. "It took a good week before you finally broke it off with - uh - whoever Jessica was. It was pretty messy as breakups go, and you felt toto guilty about everything. She never spoke to you again, after she found out the why from someone else. You deeply regretted how you handled that situation, but you also accepted that the heart wants what it wants. And that you were kinda young and dumb at the time." He paused, before adding, "Oh, that was sweet, by the way, making a model of the planet Venus. I wasn't sure if that was a subconscious decision at first, but since it was a love story - nice metaphor."

Rachel was stunned speechless, her jaw falling open. William took the opening to place the journal in his grandmother's other hand and softly said, "Read it. All of it. I hope you believe me now, when I tell you it's all true. I'm going to be in the guest bedroom; I need to fake being sick today for my advisor, and then I need a nap. We can talk afterwards."

As he turned to walk away, he could already hear the whispy sound of paper pages being rifled through.

* * *

By the time William returned to the kitchen, three hours had passed. He found his grandmother sitting at the breakfast island, forehead propped against her hand. Her eyes were clearly puffy from crying, and there was a bottle of scotch in front of her, along with a half-full tumbler.

He slid over to the other side, sitting down in front of her on one of the high stools, and asked with tender concern, "Kinda early in the day for the ee-toh, isn't it?"

Slowly, she looked up at him, then grabbed the bottle, poured a second tumbler full of amber liquid, and pushed it towards him. "It's only too early if I'm drinking alone, kiddo. So do your poor grandmother a favor." Nodding once, he took a sip along with her, bitterly wincing as it burned down his throat; he'd never managed to acquire a taste for alcohol, at least not for drinks where its presence was overwhelmingly obvious.

"So other than the drinking, how are you holding up? I mean...do you believe it? That it all actually happened?"

She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed tightly, before softly rasping out, "Yeah. God help me, I do. But I don't want to. Part of my brain is still screaming out that there was something wrong with Mom this whole time. That she was delusional, or...I don't know what. But that was never her, _pota._ Not crazy. That so wasn't her. She was one of the most stable people I ever knew in my life - ah, I wish you could have known her!" she mourned, her voice heavy and wet with emotion.

"I kinda got that chance." he whispered out with a sad smile. It took Rachel a few moments to catch on to his meaning before she continued speaking.

"She was such a rock. Always the more serious of my parents, the grounded one." Punctuating her points by stabbing her finger against the countertop, she said, "There's no way, none whatsoever, that she'd make anything like this up, intentionally or otherwise. And I just…." she reached up to wipe away a fresh wave of tears from her eyes. "It explains so much! About her, about why she was the person she was. The million little questions I had about her, that never got answered until now. The way she'd get so quiet and sad, without fail, each and every October. Why she was so strict with me. Why she was so hard on herself with her photography. It was like she felt she had to be the best she could, or it was some sort of terrible waste. I think there was a part of her that wanted to fiercely protect me...that was...how do I explain this? She wanted to make sure I didn't end up like her."

William blinked. "You mean, she was afraid you might inherit what she had? The powers…"

Rachel nodded emphatically. She gave a soft slap against the countertop with her outstretched palm and said, "Exactly! I never understood why, I just thought she was 'Strict Mom' all through my childhood. My Grandpa Ryan once told me in private that he couldn't understand how his 'little girl' became so over-protective, so controlling. But I understand it all now. And I think _that's_ the only reason I believe everything in this journal of hers. Because suddenly, everything else about my relationship with her is crystal clear!

Rachel closed her eyes tight, giving a single sob, sniffed hard, and rubbed her nose and eyes with a tissue. "And I remember now, that Dad said something to me, the day _she_ died! That she had more days in life than she deserved. Then she said she was going to tell me an important story about her and Mom - back when they were young. She obvious never got the chance, but it must have been about all this!"

She paused, grabbed the tumbler, and swirled the whiskey around it for a moment before draining it in down in one gulp, barely wincing. "But oh...oh Mom…" she swallowed back against the tears, and looked up towards the ceiling, gesturing with one hand. "I wish she would have told me, Will." Her composure began to break as she explained, "I mean, I understand how hard it would have been, why she maybe wanted to let sleeping dogs lie. Especially after I read the letter she left me."

William froze, an expression of confusion contorting his face. "Letter? Wait, what letter? You mean like, something loose inside?"

"Yes., Here." Rachel pushed a single sheet of plastic writing paper, of the kind that was in common use since the mid to late twenty-first century, towards him. "I found it stuck to the back cover."

He picked it up, immediately recognizing the handwriting that was now so familiar to him, and read:

 _My dearest daughter,_

 _If you're reading this, it means I've finally passed. I don't think it'll be much longer; maybe a few days, maybe weeks. Maybe even tomorrow. You already know I'm dying - the heart replacement surgery might work, but the doctors tell me there's a better than fifty-fifty chance I won't survive the operation. So what's the point? I've had a good, long life. Better than I deserved._

 _I'm leaving you my journals: all of them, but this one most of all. You'll probably find the story of what happened to Arcadia Bay impossible to believe, but it happened. All of it. Just the way I wrote it. It's funny, I haven't read through this thing in almost fifty years - it's held up better than I would have expected - but all those memories are coming back to me now, like it was yesterday._

 _So many times, I almost broke down and told you. Do you remember when you were eighteen, the first time you came back home from college for a visit? You finally asked me why it was that I got so sad in October. You told me you thought it was more than just the reminder of what happened to the old town. I came so close to finally telling you to truth, right then and there. But I was so frightened, Rachel; frightened that you wouldn't believe me. Or worse yet, that you_ would _. And how could you live with the truth, with what I've done? With the guilt I've carried, all these years. All the people who died, because of what I did?_

 _Or failed to do._

 _I've made peace with it as best as I could - mostly. Over the years, your father has been such a source of strength and comfort, and above all else, optimism. She never let herself believe that damn tornado was anything other than a tragic but ultimately beneficial event. That it made Arcadia Bay stronger, better. She was ready to die that night, but when she realized she was going to live, she grabbed her life with both hands, and turned it into something incredible._

 _A testiment. A triumph._

 _But she doesn't know the truth. Not all of it. Not the way you do now._

 _For years, I replayed that terrible moment of weakness in my mind. And I kept coming back to the same conclusion; I was looking for a reason to fail. Maybe I didn't think about it consciously, make a plan, but it seems blindingly obvious in retrospect. I couldn't go through with it, even though I came so damn close! So when the opportunity came, I let that picture go. And too many people suffered for that.  
_

 _But as I sit here, near the end of my life, I finally realize something: I'd do it all over again. Not just for my love of your father...but for my love of you as well. Because we never would've had you, if I'd done what she asked me to, that night. And the day Chloe agreed to start a family with me was the happiest of my life - other than the day you were born, of course._

 _I know I could be tough - so demanding. There were times you must have hated me when you were growing up. I think it was because I was frightened for you. That what happened to me was somehow genetic, that you'd have to face your own terrible decision, just as I was forced to. And I wanted you strong, Rachel. If that day ever came, I wanted you self-reliant, bright-eyed and clear minded. I wanted you to make the tough choices without fear or regret._

 _I wanted you to be better than me._

 _Oh my baby girl, my pride and joy. You have no idea how happy you made me, each and every day. And I am so relieved to see that so far, my curse has passed you over; if there is a price for me to pay, if the universe still plans to take vengeance for what I've done, it's clear now that the penance will be mine and mine alone to endure._

 _I'm not sure I have the strength to tell Chloe the truth, before I die. I'm trying to gather the strength - you'd think after sixty-five years of marriage, I'd have no doubts. That she'd still love me, no matter what, but I can't bear the thought of her turning away from me at the end, in shame and disgust. So I wrote this letter as an insurance policy of sorts. Rachel, I need you to tell her for me. Either your father will already know, or...she'll know through you. She deserves to. Just as you deserved to._

 _She's going to need you more than ever. I say it kindly, but I'm afraid that when I'm gone, Chloe is going to be totally lost without me. At least for a little while. But I know she'll get through it, with your love and support. Yours, and your family's._

 _Have a wonderful rest of your life. I don't know what's going to happen after I die, but I'd like to think I'll keep watching over you from somewhere._

 _All my love,_

 _Your Mother._

"Dad", Rachel said, her voice on the edge of heartbreak as she pointed to the letter. "How could you keep me from seeing that?"

William took a long, shaky inhalation, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he handed the letter back. Softly, he said, "I...I'm really sure. Certain. There wasn't a letter there, when I first read the journal."

Rachel took a long look at him, before answering, "You must have missed it, _pota_. That's all." The tone of her voice suggested she wasn't up for considering the possibility that he was right.

She folded the letter up, put it in her pocket, and then reached out for his hands. "William. You said you had a power. You showed me some of it. What you can do...is it anything like what my mother could?"

He shook his head emphatically. "You mean rewinding time, and going backwards through pictures? No...no way! Toto neg!" He clenched down on the knot in his stomach, as he intentionally left out what happened in the penultimate entry of the journal; his suspicions that somehow, he'd reached out across the yawning chasm of the years, and pushed his great-grandmother down the path that ensured his existence. That he'd changed the course of history.

There were a million questions still unasked on her lips, but all Rachel said next was, "I'm worried. I'm worried about you, and for you, kiddo." She walked over, encircling him tightly in her arms. "Hell, I'm downright scared now! What could it mean? Why? I don't understand the meaning behind any of this!"

William closed his eyes and hugged back. He knew he comprehended better than she did, but he couldn't bear the thought of doing anything but setting her mind at ease.

"I don't know either, _nani_. But something tells me that there aren't any tornadoes in my future. No horrible choices, no universe breaking into a million crazy pieces around me. But - uh - but if the day comes, I'm sure I'll make the right decision. Do the right thing. Because I've had the best examples growing up, yeah?"

Rachel narrowed her eyes, smiling with a terrible sadness.

"Oh William. My poor boy. What the hell do we do now?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Doesn't seem like we ought to tell anyone else though? Do you think? This feels...this feels like Price-Caulfield family business, and I guess in a way, it's just the two of us left."

She nodded, quickly muttering, "I'm sure-as-hell not about to tell Sandy, or your mother, or your aunt." before looking back towards the journal. "Part of me feels like we ought to burn that damn book. Let the secret die out with me and you, once and for all."

"Whoayeah...I don't think that's such a good idea! I mean, whatever it is, it's clearly not 'of this world' anymore. A journal that doesn't age? That was waiting all this time to be found?"

"I know." Rachel said. "Oh believe me, I know." She reached over, and held the book out to him. "I'd like to keep the letter, but otherwise? I think this belongs to you now, if you'll have it."

William allowed her to place it in his hands, and gave a heavy sigh. Part of him never wanted to see the wretched thing again. But another, larger part suddenly realized he couldn't bear the thought of never seeing it again. Even if the journal spent another eighty years locked up in a box somewhere, waiting for the next generation to discover it, he couldn't shake the notion that it, and the tremendous, impossible secret it contained was a legacy that would continue to shape his family line for generations to come.

Resting a hand on his shoulder, Rachel asked, "What are you going to do from here, _pota_? Whatever your life was up until this moment? It must see so small and mundane, now. I know that's how I'd be feeling if I were in your shoes. Whatever you do, whatever you want - need - just know that your grandfather and I will support you, in whatever way we can. If you need to take time off from school, if you need money to live while you get your head on straight, you don't have to worry about it."

He looked over to her, smiled warmly, and placed his hand over her own. "Thanks. But...ah yeah. Believe it or not 'small and mundane' sounds ultra-on-top at the moment. Going back and pretending none of this happened, at least for a while? It'd be good. So...so that's what I'm gonna do." He puffed up his chest, straightened up and continued, "Gonna catalogue all those items up in the attic, just like I came here to do. And spend as much time as I can with you, and maybe we can wander around the city, and you can tell me all the stories you remember about growing up here. And maybe, I can even discover some stories that no one ever knew before." He tossed her a playful wink at this.

He rose up from his chair and stared down at the book in his hands. He could still feel the soft yet insistent hum of emotion and memory resonating from deep within. "And then, when winter break is over, I'll go back to school, and be the most amazing student of antiquities DIAS has ever seen." He started to walk away, pausing by the window near the entrance to the kitchen. He smiled to himself, and said, "But I think before I go back to Switzerland, I'm gonna stop over in Reykjavik for a day. There's someone there that I definitely want to have coffee with."

He gave the book in his hands an oddly affectionate squeeze, and murmured to himself, "Let's find somewhere to hide you away, you fucking troublemaker. At least for a while." With that, he finally walked on.

As William walked past the kitchen window, he completely failed to notice the blue morpho butterfly clinging to the glass from the outside. It gave a few flaps of its wings before flying off into the clear and sunny skies.

 **THE END**

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Hey there folks. Despite the big ol' "THE END", this is not the final chapter! Stick around, I'm planning on a brief interlude for chapter 9, shedding light on a critical moment in Williams life a few years later, along with an epilogue for chapter 10 that will finally shed some light on Young Master Price's ultimate destiny. I've got a little surprise cooked up for that one, I hope you enjoy it.

So a few quick shoutouts: First, as always, to good buddy **LonesomeBard** , who not only made the really awesome avatar pic of Camilla Davies from Black Swan (although I'm eventually going back to the Max Payne inspired one he did, as that is my favorite piece of work he's done to date) but also provided critical beta reading help. This was an odd chapter for me: it came out shorter and much more different than I was expecting, with a lot of on-the-fly changes - like, that last paragraph was literally added about five minutes before I hit the publish button - and I really needed an external gut check; he did a really great job with that. _Kiitos_ , my friend!

Second, to **TomorrowHeart** , who most of you know as the author of Ouroboros; having already surpassed Black Swan in follows and faves, they are about to take the crown for "Most Reviewed LiS Story", so I'm officially handing off the tiara to them, just as **RowanRed81** did for me when Black Swan became "Longest LiS Story". They're a really lovely, awesome-type person, and I've had a wonderful time getting to know them better...reminds me, I still need to respond to that last email. I haven't had a chance to read Ouroboros, just as I've had little chance to read much of anything, but I hope to someday, given how excellent folks tell me it is.

Which brings me to a bittersweet announcement: Though nothing is ever written in stone, I suspect that once BWTT is finished...I will be more or less done with writing fics. At least for a good long while. It has been an amazing, transformative experience, something that has brought the most fantastic of people into my life, pushed me to work past my self-doubt, my creative boundaries, and convinced me that goals I've previously thought as impossible are always obtainable with enough hard work and discipline. Luck doesn't hurt, but you can't sit around waiting for it.

A lot has changed since my free-wheeling creative days of 2015, when inspiration would drive me to total distraction, and I was absolutely, hopelessly in love with Life is Strange, its characters, its world, its style and heart. But most importantly of all, the community that swiftly gelled around this remarkable work.

But alas, my muse has left me, and while I'm sure the creative urge will strike me once again, I just don't know how, or when. Honestly, when I wrapped up Once More Unto The Breach in late 2014, I assumed that was it, that I was done with writing, not knowing or even suspecting that my greatest time of productive output was yet to come. But the truth is that 2017 has been very difficult for me. Putting aside the destruction of political norms and public decorum and human decency taking place in my country, I've been going through a lot of personal shit: with my marriage, with my job, with my gender dysphoria. After receiving some personal inspiration and solid, concrete advice from Commander Shepard herself, Jennifer Hale, at ComiCon earlier this month, I'm going to take some of the suggestions she made, and work towards making some significant life changes in 2018. To do it right, I don't think it will leave me much time for writing - thus the semi-retirement.

I'll be around, don't you worry. You know me, I love meeting people. I love responding to messages, I love thanking folks for taking the time to read, and having folks talk to me about their ideas. Old Lady Lyta will be here, just...quiet for a while.

Have a great one, kids.


	9. Interlude

**March 2112**

William gave a wearied chuckle as he watched his in-laws, Bjork and Magnus, coo and fuss over the twins. He leaned on his arm against the glass, just outside of the 'Neonatal Visitation Suite', a brightly colored and warmly inviting room that clashed in stark contrast to the bone white, antiseptic hallways of the Reykjavik _Landspítali._ Though his newborn children were barely twelve hours old, he was more than happy to step aside and allow the rest of his family to have as much time as they could stand. With his grandparents, mothers, aunt and cousins on their way via hyperloop - not to mention the rest of his wife's relations - he was glad to let them get their fill of the newest arrivals.

 _Maggie and I'll be stuck with the kids on our own, soon enough._

The past six years had been gloriously uneventful - at least with regards to supernatural occurrences and mind-bending time paradoxes. Though his psychometric abilities never left him, William soon learned how to gain greater control over them; he no longer feared picking up any random item with his bare hands and being flooded with unwanted memories and emotions, nor was his sense of self always overwhelmed whenever he 'read' an object.

He spent the rest of his academic career fastidiously applying himself to his chosen field of study. While he could now pick up any number of hidden secrets and unknown facts about a historical text or item,he still required the skills needed to build his case and write his papers in a believable, mundane fashion as well.

 _Funny, how the line between being called either a delusional charlatan or a respected antiquarian is a easy as surviving the peer-review process._

He spent an extra year and a half at DIAS to take an accelerated curriculum for his Master's degree, and by the time he finally graduated, the world was his oyster: all the big institutions came calling, desperate to add him to their prestigious rosters: The New York Natural History Museum, the Pompidou Centre, the Rijksmuseum, just to name a few.

It was hard turning them down; saying no to the British Museum in London was especially difficult But there was a part of him that couldn't help but feel like he was cheating; his powers allowed him to 'know where to look', thereby avoiding years of painstaking research down potential dead ends. Of course, he worked hard to get where he was, but he never felt like he honestly earned his accolades.

Thus, he thanked them all politely and told them he would keep in touch before taking a position at the National Museum of Iceland. Naturally, he was excited at the prospect of helping to unearth Viking folklore; his dissertation on early Icelandic settlements was hailed as surprisingly fresh and insightful, although there was some minor controversy as to how William backed up some of his findings, with his harshest critics accusing him of 'blind, dumb luck'.

But more than that, he was eager to be close to Magda, even though she made it clear she was willing to move anywhere in the world to further his career, modern transportation technology having made the idea of intercontinental commutes feasible. However Reykjavik - indeed, the whole of Iceland itself - had charmed and fascinated him since the first day he set eyes upon it. There was something so peaceful, so intoxicatingly calm about the countryside; like the Universe had selected the best pieces of six or seven countries, then stitched them all together into one island the size of Maine. Even the forests of Arcadia Bay felt like an overwhelming cacophony of noise and activity compared to the sprawling basalt fields of the _Snaefellsnes_ or the stark, black sand coasts of the _Westfjords_.

What started with a simple visit and coffee date turned into much more than William bargained for. He quickly realized that his initial impressions of Magda Bjorksdottir - as a smart but otherwise flighty and somewhat superficial girl - were woefully incorrect. Instead, he found a passionate, clear-sighted young woman with a gift for photography, along with all of the self-doubt and struggles to live up to expectations that so many other artists suffered from.

It was barely a week before he realized how much she reminded him of his great-grandmother: her fresh-faced innocence coupled with a strong, almost blunt demeanor, her kindness, the way she never managed to truly define herself or her self-image until late into her teenage years. He never would have noticed or even appreciated any of that before his remarkable winter break in Arcadia Bay.

By the end of sophomore year, they were inseparable. By junior year, they were engaged, and then married immediately after she graduated. In all that time, however, he never found the nerve to confess his secret, to let her all the way in with regards to the truth of his existence.

But he swore she suspected….something. He once, not long after they started dating, impressed Magda's mother by quickly discerning some facts about her background based on 'careful study' of a few personal items; it was meant to look like a Holmesian display of deductive logic, clandestinely fueled by his psychometrics, but an hour later, Magda pulled him aside.

" _You're a strange man, William Price. There is something...unique about you, I think? Unusual. More than natural."_

" _Oh, that's just because I don't have a biological dad. I'm toto organique, otherwise"_ he teased. She gave him a knowing smile, but never pressed the issue again, apparently content to let him come around and tell her whatever he had to say in his own time.

Much as it had been with his great-grandparents, the years after his experience in Arcadia Bay were blissfully mundane. Were it not for the fact that his powers remained - a curious hanger-on, whose sole purpose seemed to be little more than reminding him of what happened, and what he'd done - he could almost convince himself the entire experience in the attic had been a fever dream. The journal itself now rested inside a hermetically sealed box, locked in a metal chest, which itself was stored in a high-security safety deposit vault in the orbital branch of the Bank of Zurich, located on board Asgard station - tethered to the far end of the Bifrost space elevator. It wasn't cheap, but his grandmother happily paid the yearly fee for him.

He meant to go and visit the damn thing on occasion, simply check in and make sure it was still there. But over the years, he discovered the most curious ability to keep making excuses to put it off, and thus had never laid eyes upon it since its initial internment.

" _Parnaani said it was almost- what - forty, fifty years? Before she saw it one last time?"_ he told himself. _"If it's still got places to go and things to do, being locked up in low orbit is hardly going to interfere."_

Part of him was ashamed that the chief reason he ignored it because he was afraid that somehow, not doing so could lead to him losing all that he had; a gorgeous and adoring wife, whom he loved as much as she - for reasons he could never discern - loved him. A family he was close with, a profession he enjoyed and found fulfilment in, and a country of residence that absolutely enchanted him.

Could anyone blame him for not wanting to take unnecessary risks?

It wasn't like he could ever actually forget; a few stray thoughts that occasionally bled from a book he picked up, or a coat he brushed across would always remind him, if nothing else.

William thought to get a bite to eat from the cafeteria, when one of the doors slid back, and his wife walked out, her crimson locks pulled back into a ponytail; she still looked flushed and peaked from her recent labor, but stood straight, carrying herself as much strength as she could muster.

" _Sæta!_ " he chided warmly, walking over to take her by the arm. "You oughta be resting right now. The kids are fine, and...I was just about to get some food. You want something?"

Magda smirked, reaching up to give his cheek a couple of pats that bordered on gentle slaps, and replied, "I just spent the last twenty-three hours pushing out babies, _ástin mín._ I don't feel like staying another second in bed."

To William, that seemed _precisely_ like a reason for staying in bed for as long as possible, but he knew better than to argue with his wife; she knew how to be formidable when her mind was set.

She wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him along towards the observation window. She waved tiredly to her parents, and then leaned in to William's side.

He stroked her hip and murmured, "Wow. I still can't believe it. We made a couple of kids. Like...miniature human beings! It's really incredible."

She snorted, looked up at him, and said, " _I_ made them. All you did was provide an evening's pleasurable entertainment, and some messy genetic blueprints." She laughed mischievously, and then pulled his face down for a kiss on the mouth before adding, "But there's no other man in the world whose messy genes I wanted to carry."

"Oooooh. Sex-ay and scientific! I knew there was a reason I married you." He glanced over at his in-laws, who were now rocking both infants to sleep, before turning back to his wife, and said, "I do believe the nurses were after me, about ten minutes ago. Reminding us that we still need to give them their names for the birth certificates and lineage registry. Sooooo….we might want to finally figure that out."

Magda gave an impish grin and said, "I was thinking about that. I have an idea….but I have to whisper it to you." She she glanced down, grinning nervously at the floor

"What? Whisper? Why?"

"Because I'm feeling shy. I'm afraid you'll think it's silly."

William blinked. "Shy?! Holy Mother Goddess...babe. What happened to the Furious Valkyrie who just single-handedly grew and then pushed out two live human beings from her hoo-ha?"

Magda wrinkled up her nose in a winsome frown. She reached up, placed a hand on top of his head, and then tilted it down so that his eyes met hers. "And if you ever want to pass through the gates to _my_ Valhalla ever again, husband, you'll behave."

He laughed through his nose, dutifully tilting his head to listen to the two names gently whispered against his ear. It wasn't anything he expected.

"That's...wow. I mean, I understand part of it, your grandfather was named Max, right? But Max and Chloe? I suppose it works for fraternal twins, sure. I'm just…" He struggled to put his confusion into words.

Magda blinked. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, no no, it's nothing like that. I mean, I'm actually really touched! I'm just...I guess curious?"

She threaded her fingers through his and softly spoke, "All those stories you and your grandmother told me about them. I always thought it was...hmm. Romantic, of course, but I love the fact that they were best friends, first and most of if they never became lovers, they would have always been like sisters. I want that spirit of love for our children, Will. I want them to grow up being best friends, as well as siblings."

He twitched his lips in thought as he listened. He had to admit, part of him still found it a little strange, but maybe it was a cultural thing.

 _Then again, she has a point. Yeah...why not…?_

"Alright." he said, nodding in agreement. He cracked a soft smile, and added, "The more I think about it, the more I think they would have really liked it. Think it was toto on-top. Hell, my grandmother will be over the moon, that's for sure. Like she needed any more reason to adore you." He turned back to the window, and said, "I guess that just leaves the lineage names."

"That should be easy, yes?" Magda answered.

They knew she was pregnant with twins, but wanted to be surprised by what sex they turned out to be. They'd made the agreement that if they had boys, they'd go with matrilineal names; if girls, patrilineal. But they'd been so certain about having identical twins, it never once occurred to them that could end up with both a boy and a girl.

"So then. Max Magdasson?"

His wife nodded, and then squeezed his hand. Looking up at him with deep affection, she said, "Ja. And Chloe Williamsdottir."

That was when it hit him…

 _...it's like time's repeating itself._

Another William Price. Another Chloe...well, not Price per se, Icelandic names didn't work that way. But it was close enough as to make no difference. He tried to ignore the sudden icy stab that caught his breath in his chest for a few seconds.

 _But not too close, I hope!_

He certainly didn't want to die in a tragic accident, didn't want to leave his daughter - nor his son - fatherless at a critical age. He tried to chase away the foreboding premonition of doom from his mind...because how silly was that? He was his own person, completely free and unfettered to chart his own course in life.

Right?

But wasn't that what he would have told himself before Arcadia Bay? Before finding the journal in the attic? Before confronting the possibility that he himself was merely one end of a self-fulfilling existential loop? And maybe he broke those chains, that predetermined course, the moment he accidentally interfered in the past, but if that was true, why did he still have his powers?

What was the Universe waiting for?

"Will...are you alright?" Magda asked with concern in her voice. "Gone totally pale."

He put up a wide smile he didn't feel and reassuringly said, "I'm fine...toto fine. Hell, I'm great! Look at this family we have, now! I'm just worn out, and it's catching up to me. I mean, I don't have your excuse…"

When Magda appeared mollified at the explanation and gave him a tight hug, he turned back and stared hard at the ghostly half-reflection of himself in the glass.

 _Fuck it. Doesn't matter what it means, or what I think it's supposed to mean. I'm not going to live my life jumping at shadows, wondering if today is the one where I'm going to die. I'll just move forward, day by day, and be the best father I can. Just like he was. And just like she was. William and Chloe. Together again. I think she'd be happy._

 _I think they'd both be happy, for all of this._

All he wanted was a quiet life. A happy, simple one. The universe had seen fit to provide as such thus far after Arcadia Bay, and for that he was eternally grateful.

But he never got over the sense of the sword constantly hanging over his head, bound by the thinnest of threads; condemned like Damocles to be surrounded by great fortune and comfort, but with near-certain doom close at hand at all times.

He did, however, learn how to ignore it.

Most of the time.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** Ahh...that feels weird, publishing two things so close together like that. It's been months and months.

So a shortie, but something that will set the stage for the epilogue coming up, where William finds what may be answers to at least some of his questions, but is left with even more. I don't want to give too much of it away, except that there is going to be a significant twist surprise that I can pretty much guarantee no one is going to see coming. (Maybe).

Thanks as always to **LonesomeBard** for beta reading, and catching typos. Much obliged!

I have to admit, there is a part of me that kinda wants to do a quick one shot one day: "Chloe Williamsdottir, Scoundrel Space Pilot of The Future!". Because that would be kind of neat, a sci-fi themed space opera involving Max and Chloe's great-great-granddaughter. But eh...I get a lot of little ideas, but not so much on the follow through.

Have a great Labor Day Weekend, for those of you in the States.


	10. Epilogue

**OCTOBER 2113**

"Are you certain, Will? This is my father's ring?"

William gazed at the carved gold band currently held between his fingers with a piercing and critical eye. It'd been roughly a year since he opened his store, Priceless Antiques, where he provided a range of services, from sales to appraisals, reproductions and acquisitions. It was an fascinating line of work, all the more so in a world where so many items could simply be fabricated on demand; in the end, however, authenticity and originality still counted, now more than ever.

Going into business for himself was a decision prompted by his desire for prioritizing the time he could spend with his family. Between the consulting work he did for various museums across the world, along with his own personal and family fortunes, he didn't need to keep long or arduous hours, often working by appointment alone. And of course, it helped that the Icelandic government considered his work to be "of critical cultural and artistic contribution to the nation", which meant he was able to operate within the still-prestigious 101 district with the added benefit of a significantly subsidized rent.

Despite his attempts to maintain a low profile as a gifted but otherwise unremarkable antiquarian, he'd managed to acquire a uncanny local reputation for being able to discern the most remarkable of details from items that people brought for him. William unfortunately discovered that it only took an occasional slip of the tongue, when overwhelmed with emotional details after reading an object, to get people talking amongst themselves. Even in the 22nd Century, a slim majority of native Icelanders still believed in the existence of the _Huldufólk_ \- the so-called Icelandic elves - and the rumors were that they would sometimes whisper things into WIlliam's ear.

Naturally, he tried to deny it at first, but soon discovered the futility of doing so. Eventually, he learned to adopt the Icelandic mindset of nebulosity towards the matter - perhaps yes, perhaps no, but definitely maybe - and carried on with his life. At any rate, it rarely came up as a matter in the day to day course of things…

...except for moments like these. With certain people, older ones usually; those like Herdis Ríkharðsdottir, desperate to find a hidden truth of the kind she was convinced that only William could discover.

Looking up from the ring, he fixed a kindly smile upon her, one that seemed far too old for his youthful face. Herdis was coming off from a surprisingly nasty legal dispute with her sister, where several items that had been promised to her in her father's will had - at least until recently - been intentionally kept from her. A short but ugly court battle ensued, and though she'd managed to triumph in the end, Herdis still held tightly onto her suspicions that her sister swapped out some of the most precious items with fakes.

William shrugs affably and explained, "Based on what you've told me, what's in the records you've provided, and what I can see on close inspection, I'd say this is the right ring. There's no watermarking at all, so it's not something that was produced in a fabricator. But five minutes with any home scanner would have told you that." He tilted his head meaningfully at that statement; he knew what was coming, what she would ask, but he played along all the same.

The older woman shook her jowly face, a few strands of silver hair falling out of place from the tight bun she kept it in. "Amelia could always be so...so cruel!" She sighed dramatically, and continued, "I can't understand why she hates me the way she does. But...I mean." She bit down on her bottom lip, as she insisted, "Aren't there ways someone can change a fabricator. Hack it, I mean. You know? So that it would make things, make them so perfect that no one could tell the difference?" She rubbed nervously at her hands as she asked.

William drew in a slow breath. He wished she hadn't asked, because it was exactly the sort of question he found difficult to answer without being totally honest, and it was clear she needed comfort and closure, not more doubt.

"There have always been rumors of that kinda thing. Illegal units, firmware rebuilt from the ground up. The last actual counterfeiting ring of that kind that got busted up over fifteen years back. And understand, when I say illegal, I mean there are countries that have otherwise banned the death penalty, but they'll still execute you for possession of that kind of tech. Or at least lock you up in a hole and never let you out again."

The elite of the world had made surprisingly generous concessions to the general populace over the last century - after all it was either that or pitchforks - but there was still enough of a demand for at least some artificial scarcity in the system that extreme measure were undertaken as a result.

"At any rate, even if she was willing to put her life at risk dealing with that level of crime, even if she could find someone to do it, the costs would probably be absolutely astronomical. No offense, Herdis, but does your sister hate you _that_ much?"

The other woman blushed; she obviously believed so, but couldn't make herself say the words. She sighed dramatically and said, "I just...I really hoped to know, beyond all doubt. You understand, surely?"

 _Ah, fuckity-damn!_

William knew he should offer a supportive shoulder for her to cry on, maybe a cup of tea. Tell her that of course, there'd be no charge, and really, he'd stake his professional reputation on the authenticity of the ring. Hell, after what happened last week, he should never use his powers ever again!

But there was a woman in his small shop, a local, a neighbor. Someone who had been kind to his wife and children, watching after them on occasion so that he and Magda could have date nights whenever her parents were otherwise unavailable. In that sense, Herdis was like family.

How could he say no, when it was in his power to reassure her once and for all? And when, in her own way, she knew that as well.

It was an easy thing for him now, after all these years. Natural as breathing. He simply focused for a few seconds, flexed some mental muscles, and reached out with his mind. Deftly, he skimmed through the accumulated memories impressed upon the ring in his hand. Unlike those early days, when he had little control over what he saw, it was now much more akin to browsing through electronic search results. It took less than a minute for him to find what he needed.

He reached out, placed to ring back into Herdis' hand, and spoke quietly. "The last time you saw your father wearing his ring was the last time you ever saw him alive. He hoped you and your sister would finally make peace, but laughed about it. Good-naturedly, you know, like he thought you wouldn't, but he still had to say something. He called you his _litli_ _snjókorn_ , right before you left his side. I promise you, that's the very same ring in your hand." He glanced away, idly fiddled with a few of the loose items crowding his counter, and offhandedly added, "Your sister - ah - I think she regretted it? Like she knew she'd crossed a line. It's why getting the ring back from her was easier than anything else. Anyhow….hope that helps."

She caught him off-guard, hugged him fiercely and kissed his brow. Her eyes were wet, and she clapped the side of his arm. "You're a good boy, William Price. A good…" she gave the arm a tight squeeze, "...a good man. Thank you, thank you so much. I knew you could tell me the truth! Once and for all. You and...you and your friends." She gave him a spry, mischievous look, "The hidden ones."

William held out his palms in a cultured gesture of confusion and said, "Ah, Herdis. I just...I know things. Sometimes. I make good guesses now and then, yeah?"

Herdis laughed, placing the ring back in a wooden box, playing along. "Oh yes. Very good ones." She looked back to him and said, "I'll see you in a few days, _ja_?" She reached up, wiping her eyes at last. "Uh - I'll make a nice _möndlukaka,_ for Magda and the kids."

"Hey, that'd be really nice! Chloe especially loves your cakes, I'm sure she and Max'll fight over the last piece." he chuckled. "Thank you."

"Right, well. _Sjáumst síðar_." she said, clearing her throat loudly, before smiling and waving. She moved towards the front door, navigating around the piles of items and curios that took up most of the floor space.

" _Bless bless!"_ he called out brightly, waiting until the door closed to let out a hard, heavy sigh. He cupped his forehead and muttered, "Please Goddess, let that be the last one, for a good long while. Toto need the break."

It was only a minute or two away from closing time, and he was happy for the day to be coming to an end, as he started to putter about and make himself ready to head home. He frowned as he brooded over how he'd been taking too many chances as of late. Too many risks. Pulling 'The Trick' for a family friend was one thing, but lately…

 _Still got chills after what happened last week. Can't shake the feeling somethings' gonna happen…_

An ancient bell chimed merrily in response to the door opening and closing. William turned, looking over to the equally ancient woman who strode into the shop. Her hair was bone white, and tied up in tight, severe looking plait. Her face held more creases than he thought possible with human skin, and while she was bundled up in a grey felt greatcoat, he could easily imagine how frail and bony the frame underneath must be. The woman walked with slow purpose, leaning lightly against a black lacquered cane that he swore he'd seen before - one topped with a crystal skull, just like the kind his great-grandfather once owned.

It was the eyes, however, that belied the form. They spoke of an indomitable spirit, of a woman for whom advanced age was nothing more than a quarrelsome inconvenience. They warned that whatever mind lay locked within those bones brightly blazed with a fierceness as fresh and unending as youth. Though she required the cane, her back was held straight, refusing to fully bend under the weight of her years. Clearly, she was in exceptional health.

William called out, "I'm sorry, ma'am? We're closing now. But I'd be more than happy to make an appointment. Or you could come back when we're open again on Friday."

It wasn't that he was trying to be rude, but there was something about her that set him ill at ease. The sooner he could get back home, with a nice warm supper in my stomach and playing with the kids, the better.

The woman coughed hard to clear her throat, causing her enter body to shake, before finally speaking. Her voice was rich, despite the rough edges time had given it; a well-heeled, cut-glass London accent, one that sounded downright archaic to his modern ears.

"I've come a terribly long way to see you tonight, Mr. Price. For an old dowager such as myself I'm sure…" she paused, taking in a long, pointed breath, and then said, staring him straight in the eyes, "...that you could _make the time_."

Williams blood flash-froze. He immediately caught the meaning in her intonation. Where normally he might try to convince himself that he was merely imagining things, he couldn't deny what every instinct was screaming at him right this moment: this woman, so impossibly old, knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. Who he was, what he could do.

 _Oh Goddess above. Is this it? Is this where it all ends? Someone found me out? Someone from the government? Or worse?!_

He did his best to will his heart from beating out his chest, off-handedly polishing the brass plating in the antique cash register on his display counter, before trying to disinterestedly answer, "Of course, I can give you a few minutes. Gladly."

She reached into her coat, pulled out a thin piece of metal, and pressed down on it. There was a click from the front door, as the lock automatically engaged. The indicators at William's counter showed that the security system was now active as well. Putting the device away, and then holding out a hand, she spoke in a reassuring tone, "Truly, I mean you no harm. But it _is_ vitally important that no one else walk in while we have our discussion. That would be...bloody inconvenient." She cracked a soft smile, and moved as briskly as her legs would allow. "My goodness, look at you. I can see so much of her. Both of them. Your great-grandparents, that is. You've - ah - got her eyes, yes?" The cane in her hand rose up, the crystal skullpiece tapping the side of her face. "Your late, great-grandfather, the esteemed Senator from Oregon."

He nodded once, "Um. Thanks."

She chuckled, deep in the back of her throat. "This was hers, you know? I'm sure you recognize it. No doubt, you recall a few years back, when your grandmother allowed some of her father's personal effects to be auctioned off to raise money for aid relief in the Carolina Deadlands?"

Williams eyes widened, and he nodded again, this time more emphatically. He did indeed remember Rachel asking him to do some appraisals of a few things; he was rather proud of her, giving up items that held significant sentimental value for them both, knowing that they'd fetch a good price for an equally good cause.

"Of course I do, uh...miss?"

She blinked, looking quite embarrassed, and frowned. "Of course! Age is no excuse for forgetting my manners." She planted the cane back onto the floor, folded her hands over the top, and introduced herself. "My name is Camilla Davies. I knew your great-grandfather. Not personally mind you, but we interacted several times professionally over the years during my time as Director of the FBI." She shook her head, laughing with bemusement, "I remember the day, when your great-grandfather was still a Congresswoman, and called me up in something of a panic. Back when your grandparents started dating. Wanted me to run a background check on her daughter's young beau. Hardly the first Congressperson I had to have this conversation with. I told her that as a US Representative, the FBI naturally kept a watchful eye on her, her family, and anyone that they were closely involved with. I dare say, I was aware of young Rachel's budding romance long before her father learned of it.

William blanched at the revelation. In the back of his mind, a voice loudly protested at what was a clear impossibility.

 _What! Hella-no! That was over sixty years ago. There's no way…_

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound disrespectful, but that is toto-cray. You can't be that old, you'd have to be like...well…"

"I turned one-hundred thirty-eight years last month." she smiled, as if perversely satisfied. "Quite advanced, even in this day and age. I assure you, I'm currently the oldest woman on the face of the planet, a fact I've worked tirelessly to keep off the public radar at large." She shook her head and snorted, "You have no idea how persistent the people from that bloody Guinness book can be." She canted her head to the side, preemptively answering William's followup question, "It's all been a matter of clean living, combined with unparalleled force of will." She laughed lightly, tapping her forehead. "And, would you believe, that I've played a foundational role in developing essentially every bit of the anagathic treatments that you lot now enjoy?" She sighed heavily, snorting peevishly, "Not that you would know it to look at me. Turns out the key is starting early. Telomeres are fussy, terrible, wicked little things. They very much resent being told what to do after a while. Around the forties or fifties seems to be the cutoff, if you don't start getting the injections by then. Wasn't as useful for 'oldbies' from the Twentieth century, but...I've discovered ways to force the issue."

With that, she was seized with a prolonged, painful looking coughing fit. William started to walk over to support her, but she held out a hand to stop him, before reaching into her coat and pulling out a bulky looking inhaler. Taking two strong puffs, she was able to breath again, but he couldn't help but notice a trembling in her hands that wasn't there previously.

"Wow. Are you…?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine." she said, waving him off. "A couple more weeks, that's all. I only have to hold out for a bloody fortnight, and then I'll finally have a permanent cure for my...condition." Her eyes shined bright at this. William found himself too frightened to press for further details.

"Anyhow, the reason I'm here, William - can I call you that?"

He nodded twice, jaw having fallen open.

"Fabulous. I'm here to tell you a story. A rather long one, and for that I apologize. It's about me, mostly. But by the end, you should see how you fit into it. You, and especially your great-grandmother."

"Oh no." William breathed out, despite himself.

"Oh yes." Camilla responded. "Indeed, I would dare say that I've waited my entire life to meet you...or rather, someone _like_ you. Now, if an old woman could trouble you for a cup of proper tea - nothing from a food replicator, please - perhaps we can sit somewhere? I'll tell you everything, and after that, I'll gladly answer every conceivable question you could ask."

William closed his eyes. Memories bubbled up in his mind, of feeling a similar sense of helplessness near the end of his encounter with his great-grandmother's journal. He couldn't help but think that he was simply bobbing along some dark, storm-churned ocean, tossed about by the tides of fortune, by forces he had absolutely no control whatsoever over. Whomever this Camilla Davies was, he couldn't help but feel she represented whatever agency of the universe stood in judgement over him. That she was here to deliver all of the karma he'd reaped over the years, ever since his abilities emerged.

 _Please let me be get through this. Please please…_

 _...and if not, then let this pass over Maggie and the kids!_

"William?" Camila inquired, as he realized he'd not answered for the better part of ten seconds.

He forced his hands to let go from the side of the counter, smoothed a pleasant smile onto his face, and asked, "Would jasmine do?"

Camilla smiled, "Oh yes. That would be lovely." 

* * *

The two of them settled in at a tiny table in the back room of the shop. Over cups of tea and cookies, Camilla began her story.

"I grew up in a poor, working class part of London. Brixton Hill, to be exact. A miserable child in a miserable home with an uninterested far and a miserably abusive mother. From an early age, I never did well in school." She tapped at her head. "Never received an official diagnosis, but it's obvious to me now that I suffered from any number of learning disabilities. Dyslexia coupled with dysgraphia, by and large. My mother never tried to understand what was wrong with me, just kept yelling, calling me a stupid child. And as children are often wont to do, I absorbed the abuse, vainly trying to be what I thought my mother wanted and never succeeding. But that all changed, almost in an instant, when I was fourteen."

Camilla gently dunked her biscuit in her tea with practiced grace, nibbling on it slowly as she continued, "I'd been getting these dreadful headaches for weeks. I tried to tell my mother about it, but she always accused me of skiving. So after being yelled at by her, yet again, for failing a quiz, I ran up to my room, terribly despondent; not to be dramatic about it - it's hard to recall, even for me, because it was such a long time ago - but I'm pretty certain I was pushed to the point where I was considering suicide. But I do remember looking up at my ceiling, suddenly so furious with the universe. How dare it do this to me! How dare it curse me like this, make me stupid, force me to live with this broken, despotic woman who clearly resented my very existence!" She took a breath, and then a long pull from her tea. William could see that even now, over a century later, those childhood traumas haunted her.

"I grew angrier over the span of minutes; I felt like a wild animal, caged and desperate to escape. I started to throw things, but the pain in my head soon overwhelmed me. I fell to the floor. I may or may not have screamed; logically, you'd think my mother would have come to check on me, if just to tell me to knock it off, but she never did. Perhaps she didn't care. At any rate, I passed out, but before I did, I suddenly...understood…"

William couldn't help but notice the pause. "Yeah? Understand...what?"

Camilla smiled wryly, "Everything. Absolutely everything. Just for a moment, but that was all I needed. When I came to a few minutes later, the headaches were gone, I was so relieved. I didn't know what to make of it, or what to do from there. But there was a book, one of my science texts, laid out and open right in front of me. I remember casually glancing it over, and being able to understand and perfectly recall each and every word I'd seen. Curious, I read more. In ten minutes, I'd not only read through the entire thing, I'd absolutely retained all of the knowledge inside. I spent the rest of the night in my room, and by morning, I'd absorbed every word in every book on my shelves. Stranger yet, I didn't feel sleepy. As time went on, I found I could spend whole days awake and alert; all I'd need was a couple hours nap here and there to refresh me. Everything in my mind was improved! Enhanced. Better than the best!" She gently smacked her palm down on the table. "Cognition, inspiration, intelligence, intuition. Everything." She paused, and said, "I realize this must all sound unbelievably fantastic. You're literally the first person I've ever told the whole story to."

William cracked a playful grin and murmured, "Dunno. I've seen a lot of toto-weird things in my time. Life is strange, when you least expect it to be." Of course, the story the older woman was spinning for him strained belief; but so did psychometry. So did changing the course of history. Hell, half of Reykjavik called him the man the Little People whispered secrets to. So of course he believed, because it struck him: he wasn't alone.

He never realized how terribly isolated, alienated his powers made him feel. Not until this moment. The long, sleepless nights he wondered, wrestling with mysteries. Why him? Why his great-grandmother? Why no one else, at least no one he could find? Not that he'd spent a lot of time looking, but he couldn't be the only person on the face of the planet capable of superhuman feats? Could he?

For too long a while, he bemoaned that the answer was, quite possibly, yes.

But now?

He wasn't alone anymore.

He quickly interjected, his playful facade immediately giving way to his sense of relief. "I mean that, by the way. And I believe you."

Camilla snagged another couple of biscuits from the tray, cramming one of them immediately into her mouth. Chewing and swallowing as fast as she could, she muttered, "Sorry. Damn medication, makes a frightful mess of my metabolism." She then sighed, adding, "Thank you. I mean, I knew you would." she smirked. "But thank you."

Clearing her throat she said, "As you can imagine, my school life changed dramatically. And brought no small amount of suspicion down on my head. I didn't realize at first how it would look, the 'dumbest girl in school' suddenly acing her exams, answering every question in class correctly, or even correcting the teachers when they made mistakes. There were accusations of cheating. Easily disproved, but my God, did they try, again and again, to catch me. Any number of repeat examinations with the teacher in the room, watching me like a hawk. And that, William, is where I learned the first and most important lesson of my new life: the need for secrecy. If you stick out, if you challenge the status quo, if your abilities mark you as special beyond special, society will tear you down. It seems to be practically hardwired into our genes: the tall poppies are the first to be cut down. Icarus, in his exultant glory, flies too close to the sun and crashes to his death in the sea. So I dialed it back. I learned how to be simply "smart enough". To limit my improvement, and slow its apparent rate of progress. It was almost as if it were easier for reality itself to accept the narrative of 'struggling girl overcomes her academic problems over a long period of time, with hard work and effort' than 'idiot child becomes world's smartest woman overnight'. It worked though; by the time I entered Cambridge, no one had trouble ignoring my first fourteen years of abject academic failure.

William poured her a fresh cup of tea, handed it over, and asked, "Wow. That must have made your Mom happy, right? At long last?"

Camilla got a distant, faraway look in her eyes. She glanced away from him, placed a fist to her lips as she coughed, and in a low voice said, "My mother and I never reconciled. It ended very badly between us. She - uh - was in poor health, and died right before I went off to university."

He blanched at this. "Oh. Goddess. Sorry about that." An uncomfortable silence grew between them, and he sought to break it by changing the topic. "But you had to wonder though, right? I mean, with your abilities. Why you? And...and was it just you? Because if you could somehow transform like that, why not other people?"

Camilla happily took the offered opening. "Mmmm. On the nose. Oh, thank you." She belatedly took the cup back and continued, "Of course I wondered. But I wasn't sure how to go about finding out. This was the early nineties; the Internet was a thing, but it was hardly the font of information it would become in a few short years. So that was when I hatched an absolutely dreadful plan. Because it occurred to me, William, if anyone out there would have information on fantastic persons and where to find them, who would it be?"

It took William a few seconds to realize she was expecting him to answer, "Uh. Oh! I mean, guess the government right? Intelligence agencies. You know, whichever group handles all the secret, shadowy things. Aliens, magic, Lady Gaga sightings."

"Exactly. So naturally, I was going to have to infiltrate the government, and get access to their classified data. Simple as that."

William started to laugh, but then abruptly stopped. "Oh...wow. You're being serious?"

"As cancer once was, yes." She smiled with girlish glee, "So I set about studying certain topics. Statistics, sociology, and especially languages. All the things that I knew would fit a certain profile. You can imagine my immense surprise…" she sarcastically drawled. "...when MI6 came tapping on my door graduation day. They were always happy to snatch up smart people who can quickly comb through reams of intelligence data and make sense of it, while speaking eight to ten different languages fluently. I had my in, and I took it. I spent years working my way up the ranks. Doing my job, paying my dues for Queen and country. I learned a _lot_ about how the world worked, the dirty laundry it kept hidden. Got to where I was more or less running everything behind the scenes. But you know, in my almost twenty years there, I never found what I really wanted." She shook her head. "No signs of secret organizations filled with people who could perform extraordinary feats. No hidden projects, no UN task forces. No groups with clever little code names, saving the world from danger one thrill-packed adventure at a time." She swirled her tea about in her cup for a moment and said, "Of course, there were always rumors. Hints and intimations. Nothing that panned out. It wouldn't be until much, much later that I figured out the reason for it, why I couldn't find anyone else like me for so long; I'll get to that in a little while. Suffice it to say, I was incredibly frustrated by how ordinary and mundane the world seemed to be, even for those of us able to peer past the curtains. I found myself despairing, questioning the point of my entire existence. Wondering if I was some strange cosmic joke…"

"I know how that feels." William interrupted. "Pretty terrible, huh?"

She reached out, squeezed his hand, and nodded. "Dreadful. I thought about resigning my position, except I wasn't sure where to go. What to do. Adrift, without purpose or meaning. And then it happened: a particular week in October, in the year 2013. Mmmm, a hundred years ago this week, if I correctly recall. In some backwater little fishing village no one ever heard of, on the far side of The Colonies." She smirked at that last bit.

"Arcadia Bay". William offered.

"Quite. I remember monitoring the chatter coming in over the Internet; by that point, I'd filled it with clandestine expert systems and filter bots, combing the world's information networks for anything that I might find useful or interesting. It was the unscheduled eclipse that first caught my attention. A freak snowstorm is one thing, but...you understand how impossible this is, William, yes? Even a hundred years ago, it was child's play for humanity to predict eclipses years, decades in advance. There is absolutely, positively no way one could have just crept up and said 'Surprise!'."

William nodded, "I - I know. Right? That always was hyper-weird. I mean, I'm not a scientist but...what you're saying is toto-right. I mean, I've looked it up, and no one did anything more than just - I don't know? Shrug their shoulders. It's like they gave up trying to understand it." He paused, "Hey, you're the spy lady, so what really happened? I mean, what did MI6 think was going on?"

Camilla leaned in, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "So glad you asked, young man. Because nothing happened. Not a damn bloody thing."

He blinked, disbelieving, "What do you mean, nothing happened?"

"I mean", she answered, "MI6 was suddenly and mysteriously unconcerned about an eclipse no one predicted. They weren't alarmed at all. Neither was the CIA, or the FSB, or the NSA, or any other alphabet organization that you may have heard of, along with all the ones you never have. Nor did they think that a tornado, one that formed in complete defiance of all meteorological factors in play that week, was worth investigating either. 'Oh, strange things happen.' they said. 'Er, we need to focus on helping those people out, right away! Camilla, you've been doing this too long, you see sinister intent in everything now.' And the harder I pushed, the more resistant my superiors became. I showed them computer models, I explained why the events that took place in Arcadia Bay were absolutely impossible, I all but got down on my knees and begged weeping for them to personally send me to investigate. But no. Not just 'no', but after a while, they made it clear that if I didn't let it go, I'd be cashiered from MI6. And at my clearance level, you don't just get released, you end up an unfortunate tragedy, somewhere facedown in the Thames. Or just...disappear."

"I don't believe it!" William exclaimed. He then groaned, covering his face up. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to make a joke. I mean, I believe you, when you say this stuff. I don't understand why the whole world tried to ignore it, but that...that seems to be exactly what happened."

Camilla nodded once, "It was almost like a biological response to an infection. Or, perhaps most accurately, like a computer reacting to a glitch in the code. Which is not too far from the truth."

"Wait. What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I left MI6 of course. It was clear I wasn't going to get anything more out of it, and by this point, I'd infiltrated so many of their systems with backdoors only I knew about, it wasn't like I actually needed the position anymore. So I locked myself away, for weeks, months on end. Trying to figure this puzzle out. It became an obsession, an instinctive _need_ to know what was going on. I consumed whole libraries of books in a day, trained in the gym for hours on end, hoping the endorphin rush would inspire me. Days would pass, and I was still no closer to finding the answer, even as I was certain it was right in front of me. And then it hit me." Camilla stopped, working a kink out from her neck before continuing, "This must have been around mid-2015. I spent a month not sleeping, cramming nootropic stacks like candy, trying to push my mind to the limit. To break through whatever barrier was holding me back. And oh, gosh, I must have been doing something stupid like locking myself up in my Japanese sauna, nearly ninty-five degrees Celsius. When it finally hit me, like a bolt from the blue."

"What?" William asked, trying to keep the humor out from his voice, and failing, "Massive dehydration?"

"Yes, actually." she said in retort. "But more importantly, I realized the second most important lesson in my life: the universe is a system. _The_ System. On the surface, we know this to be truth, we see the world bound by a series of predictable physical and quantum mechanical rules and processes. But for the first time, I saw, and understood, that it was more than that. It was a great machine, a puzzlebox, sublimely complex, infinitely subtle. But so much more grand and vast, more elegant than those crude similes. For a few brief seconds, I saw the levers and gears, slides and switches behind the facade. When I crawled out of the sauna, and into the cooling bath, it finally occurred to me: someone smart enough, someone clever beyond all normal human capacity could learn how to manipulate that System. Slowly, over decades. He, or more to the point, she, could...well. It's like making a few adjustments here, a few pokes there. Flap the butterfly wings, add a few extra drops of water, a shifting of the breeze. Suddenly, the typhoon blows, the dam breaks, the avalanche starts."

William didn't know how to respond that. Up until this moment, he was content to believe this strange, impossibly old woman, with her crazy tales, because it was nothing stranger than what he himself had experienced and borne witness to. But suddenly, a line too far was in danger of being crossed.

"Hold on. Whoa. Full stop. You make it sound like you...I don't know how to say this. You figured out how to take over the world?"

"Take over? Oh good heavens, no. That would be impossible. The world wouldn't stand for that, any more than it would stand for fully investigating eclipses and tornados that shouldn't exist. No, what I figured out how to do was no more, and no less, than set certain things I required in motion and wait for the desired result. It's easy, really, when you know where and how to do it. It's easy to amass a great fortune through manipulating the stock market, it's child's play to hide that amongst a vast web of shell corporations, it's so simple to guide the right people in the right directions, when you know how."

Camilla placed her steepled hands on the table. "I found a world adrift, William. Out of control, blind, ignorant, heading for self-destruction. All I did was grasp the rudder and set a course. When I started, and needed to fulfill a handful of specific needs - like, highly sophisticated equipment that could scan the quantum fabric of space and time, I gave humanity guidance in the right place. And so, a desperate research engineer in AkashaDyne receives a few anonymous tips on how to quadruple photovoltaic efficiency while halving the cost of production, and suddenly, Arcadia Bay is the country's leader in solar generation tech. Imagine me doing this a thousand times, in a thousand different fields, over the past hundred years. Maybe I needed a more stable and cooperative world government. And so, a few politicians here and there found their re-election prospects mysteriously crumbling, and suddenly, Chloe Price-Caulfield, and others of a similar viewpoint, are Senators, Congressmen, Mayors and Governors in their stead. Imagine a thousand butterflies flapping their wings in this fashion, all over the globe. I certainly needed more time to carry out my plans. And so, anagathics research receives a huge shot in the arm in the form of any number of large grants from various corporations." She straightened up, looking fairly pleased with herself. "And if I needed to keep an eye on things, get closer to the action, it wasn't difficult to convince the powers that be that it was _their_ good idea to put brilliant and respected MI6 veteran Camilla Davis in charge of the FBI, after she'd spent so many years as a good woman with dual citizenship. After that, it was a membership on the EU Parliament, and then a high level UN task force that doesn't officially exist..."

She shook her head, downing the rest of her tea. "Just like pushing instructions into a computer. But sometimes, I'd try to move too fast, and The System would push back. Conservative elements would reclaim political power for a while, religious terrorism would make a comeback. And so, the destruction of the Eiffel Tower, and the rise of the Freedom Eagle party. But I learned, after the first fifty decades or so, that patience was essential; if one generation refused to accept my proposed changes, I needed to wait ten or fifteen years, and try again with the next. Too much, too soon, and a kind of paradox would seize the minds of the masses. They had to be guided towards these things ever so gently. The Middle East was the toughest nut to crack. Let me tell you, The System most definitely did not like the idea of a secular Free Arabia. And so, the destruction of Jeddah."

Camilla let out a breath, and in a small voice said, "It started out initially as nothing more than a means to a simple end; to get me the technology I need to crack the mystery of Arcadia Bay, and places like it that I'd discovered over the years. For the first few years, I was really quite convinced I would fail. I'm tickled pink, of course, that things worked out better than I possibly could have imagined. Making the world a better, brighter, more beautiful place was a very happy side effect. I'm sure I would have done it for its own sake, all the same. Like I said...the world was a proper mess when I started."

William gazed at Camilla in a new, and profoundly different light. He never felt more threatened or more safe in his life. The instinct in his brain that told him to ignore whatever she was saying, to turn this crazy old bat out into the streets, and never think about her or her story again was weak to begin with, after all these years.

He could feel it dying out at long last.

William accepted, without hesitation, that he was mostly likely in the presence of the most powerful woman in the world.

"But there were people out there, powerful groups. Captains of industry, and media, and everything! They must have gotten suspicious of what you were doing?" he asked.

Camilla cackled, "Oh yes. Them. Obviously, I was aware of them already, thanks to my time in MI6. But wouldn't you know it, the same veil of incredulity that kept me from getting people to take me seriously about Arcadia Bay suddenly became my ally. Wrapped me up, like an enchanted cloak. All the same, people would, on rare occasion, come close to cracking the secret of Camilla Davies, Mistress of the World. Especially during times I'd offended The System with my attempts to manipulate it. Regretfully, I needed to take ruthless action more than once in order to safeguard myself." She closed her eyes tight at this confession.

"You make it sound like the universe has a mind of its own. A consciousness." William whispered.

Camilla leaned in and smirked, "You make it sound like it doesn't."

He bowed his head, conceding the point, before asking, "So, what happened? You must have gotten at least something you wanted. Figured things out enough to track me down?"

She nodded, "Yes. About ten years ago, I finally received the working prototypes for the equipment I envisioned decades earlier. Like a child on Christmas, playing with her new toy, I took it to all the places I could think of: Hiroshima, Stonehenge, Giza. I won't bore you right now with what I discovered. Naturally, I saved the best for last. Arcadia Bay. You can just imagine, can't you, William, what I found there? How the fabric of time and space twists and turns? The scars left over, still so fresh? But it was the loop, like some great ouroboros, that connected your great-grandparents house to Lighthouse Point and back again that confirmed all of my suspicions. You see, I _knew_ Max and Chloe Price-Caulfield were involved, that they were in the center of whatever events took place in that one week, but I couldn't quite see how or why. And I'd become too distracted in the work of trying to shape the world to my needs to try and ask them about it; I'm afraid even _I_ can still fall prey to tunnel vision. I could have kicked myself for losing track, missing my opportunity. But there was still you, and your grandmother. After considerable research, I realized one or both of you were somehow tied up in all of this. It was just a matter of biding my time once again, and waiting for the right moment." She held out her cup for a refill, and asked, "Do you know what that moment was, William?"

He sighed, pouring the tea dutifully. "Last week."

"Last week." she repeated. "Last week, last Tuesday, at 6:09pm local Reykjavik time, the flow of history itself was altered. And let me just say, you have no idea, none whatsoever, of what it's taken, the technology behind my sensors, to be able to detect that sort of thing. The problem of filtering out the nigh-infinite false positives alone took seventy years to crack. But I did it. The question now, of course, is why." She narrowed her eyes as she appraised him. "I'd like to know what was so important, Mr. Price, that you'd take such a terrible risk. I know you didn't go back very far, that the ripple effect was minimal. But, still." She tilted her head in an owl-like fashion. "Illuminate me."

For a few ludicrous seconds, William thought about running. Pushing Camilla out of the way, throwing his tea in her face. Fleeing in terror in the night, finding his family, and dragging them out, to go somewhere...anywhere. To hide...to…

 _Where? Where could I hide? What could I do? Shit, for all intents and purposes, Goddess Herself has walked into my shop._

This was it, then. The moment he'd dreaded; the moment he'd anticipated. Ever since he reached back across the decades and spawned the paradox that ensured his existence, and sealed Arcadia Bay's fate, he awaited a day like this one.

 _At last. To be able to tell someone. Someone who will understand. Before the end comes for me._

Tears were welling in his eyes; not of joy, or sadness, but of relief. He'd tell his tale, and then ask Camilla to make it quick. Of course, he'd plead with her, that she spare Magda and the kids, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this veritable force of nature would grant his last request. He wondered what might become of his poor grandmother...but there was nothing more he could do. Perhaps her desire to turn away from the truth, and keep it sealed in a vault would keep her protected, where his foolishness had condemned him.

"Not...not the first time I did it." William began, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "That was a few years back, when I was nineteen. That's when I suddenly discovered I had the power to read memories and impressions from objects. But more importantly...I could change the past while I was doing it. Like...like what you say you were doing, yeah? I could give pushes, I think. Nudge people in the right direction. I'm only guessing, because it was an accident! I promise you, it was an accident. My poor great-grandmother, she had powers too! She could rewind time, and alter the past by jumping through photographs. She blamed herself for the tornado, a tornado created when she prevented her best friend Chloe from being shot and killed. She always meant to go back in time and allow the course of events to flow the way they were supposed to be but….but I stopped her somehow. I gave her just enough of a push, that she stopped, and then lost the picture. Then, she lost her powers." He covered his face up and choked back a sob, "I never meant for it to happen! I never meant it! I didn't want to kill all those people! To make my great-grandmother spend her whole damn life living with the guilt, thinking she'd done it single-handedly. Especially when...when there are days I wonder if _I'm_ the real reason the tornado happened."

He was speaking so quickly now, the words pushing their way out his mouth almost faster than he could form them. And then, like an engine running out of fuel, he sputtered to a stop.

Camilla gave a soft, satisfied sigh. "There it is. The final piece of the puzzle. A bit of a surprise. I like those. At my age, they so rarely spring up." With that, she reached into her greatcoat…

...and pulled out a familiar looking journal.

William looked down at it, and then up at her. "How…?"

"Oh, please. The moment I realized you and your grandmother were going to great lengths to hide _something_ in one of the world's most secure private storage facilities, I knew I had to have it. But even now, even for me, these things take time. I only managed to get my hands on it three days ago." She casually flipped the pages, reverently stroking them. "Curious little artifact, isn't it? The impossible book. The glitch in The System, slightly outside of it. No longer bound by the conventional rules of reality." She crossed her legs, and suddenly seemed several decades younger, as her voice rose, "And for all those years, you never changed the past again? I'm assuming that much. At least, not until last week. Why? Why now?"

William nodded, "Another...accident? I have a friend, a _lögreglumenn_ \- you know, city police - uh...there was a case. Little girl was kidnapped and they didn't have any leads. And you - _you_ know, of course you do, that I have a reputation in town. He brought me her bracelet, one they thought she dropped in the scuffle. Thought I could give them a clue. What could I do, say no?" He hugged himself tight. "I was able to figure out that it was her father. Messy custody dispute. Right as I'm about to tell him though, my friend, he gets a call on his link. Girls dead. It was an accident, but she died."

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he said, "Don't know what came over me, you know? Probably because I have kids of my own. I didn't realize what I was doing until it was too late. I grabbed the bracelet again, and I shouted at the girl, in her mind, to run, to not get in that van with her father. To run and tell her mom. And - uh - and the next thing I know, I'm in my shop. No friend, no bracelet, and a huge bloody nose that wouldn't close up for a good twenty minutes. Almost went to the hospital because of it. But I checked the news feeds, and wouldn't you know it; there was a piece about a girl who ran away when her father tried to kidnap her, and take her out of the country. I did that. I changed things. Saved her."

They were both quiet, for the better part of a minute. He stared nervously at Camilla, as she tapped her lips in thought.

"Look whatever happens next, please...leave my family out of this. They don't know anything, I swear." His eyes welled up with fresh tears. "Whatever this is...it probably skips a generation, yeah? My children….my childr- " She bore down, desperate to keep from breaking down into a pathetic mess. "Please don't."

Camilla reached out, and took his hand in hers. She gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze, and smiled at him. "Oh...you poor thing. How long you've carried this. How long you've feared the day that something, or someone, popped up and said 'Boo.'. When you pushed against The System, and it would finally push back. Ah, Mr. Price. True, you are a dangerous complication, but you're also a good man. Naturally, if I thought you were an untenable risk, I'd make it quick and painless. But...well. The truth of it is that it sounds like you need me, William. To keep you from making any more 'mistakes'. And to be quite blunt, I need you as well, for the exact same reason. You see, things have changed. The System has changed."

William was spent; he let out a few more sobs of release and relief. He felt the weight of the last few years slough off like old, dead skin. And for the first time since he could remember, the sense of his immediate and lurking doom was at last banished. Logically, he should still be afraid; it sounded like the possibility of coming to a bad end was still there, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Changed?" he asked in a tiny voice. "How?"

"Because we're suddenly not alone. It took me all this time to figure it out, but people like you and I? We were literally one in a billion, when I first...emerged. That ratio has been slowly increasing, just within the past few years. A decade ago, it was more like one in seven-hundred fifty million. A few special individuals, almost all of whom went into hiding, committed suicide, or were locked away. I would say it's getting closer to one in two-hundred million today. As a result, the governments of the world are at last starting to take notice; that 'blind spot' that's always existed, concealing this sort of thing is diminishing in power. At this rate, it's only a matter of time before hundreds, maybe thousands of people, with powers and abilities like yours and mine, come into existence. Into a world that, even now, is barely prepared for the disruption they'll create." She inhaled sharply through her nose, and said, "You see, William. The reason I can hardly fault you the sins of your past is that I have a theory about all of this. I'm afraid - well - that this is largely on me."

"What. Wait. Really? Like you mucked about with the machine as if it was your own home fabricator, and now human evolution is speeding up?" William said, his old ornery charm returning.

"Hmmm. Something like that, perhaps." Camilla smiled. "I've had so many years to think about it. I believe one of the prime functions of The System is to act as a test of sorts. A series of stages, each emerging with increasing complexity. As humankind passes through each phase, technologically and culturally, new variables are thrown into the mix. Things get harder and harder to deal with, more challenging. We very nearly wiped ourselves out, but didn't. Not to boast too loudly about it, but if I hadn't been around, we might well have. So now, humanity goes past a crucial threshold, thanks to my interference, shows that we aren't going to destroy ourselves in nuclear, cultural or environmental fire and flame, that we have enough technological know-how and maturity to start spreading out across the solar system. What comes next? A sudden sea-change in human capacity maybe? A new species arising to supplant the old, in the way that Homo Habilis and Neanderthals gave way to Homo Sapiens? Whatever it is, William, I need to get ahead of it. _We_ need to get ahead of it. I think this could do a lot of good, bring amazing things to the forefront...but it could also be the impetus for us wiping ourselves out once and for all. A new threat, just as we've managed to dodge the previous one."

She leaned back, stared down at the table, and spoke in a quiet voice, "As pleasant and peaceful as the 22nd century may be, I'm afraid I have to admit that in my arrogance and sense of righteous superiority, I've done nothing more than trade one set of demons for another. I like to think that ultimately, foundationally, I _am_ a good person, but I can't deny that over the decades, I've done things, played ethical calculus with lives, taken actions that would and should make the stomachs of decent people everywhere turn in disgust. So can you imagine it, Will? " She looked back up at him, steely-eyed, "If someone should arise, someone like me, with my abilities, except that they're also a completely amoral sociopath? If they figure out how to alter The System that way I have…"

She bowed her head, suddenly looking each and every one of her years. "So I'm expanding my operation. Bringing others into the fold. That must sound so sinister and terrible, and in a certain sense, I suppose it is. But I've come to realize something very important: I can't do this alone anymore. A century back, there was no one else I could turn to, but now? Today? I need you, William. More to the point, I need _you_ , not because of your abilities - as useful as they will no doubt become - but I need someone young. A good man. A kind one, with love in his heart, and eyes unclouded, who can see the vital details, the importance of a single human life. You and I and others like us, the first of a new species, need to be a representative of our better angels. A shining example. A reminder that humankind is so much better than it thinks it is. I'm convinced The System has multiple players at the highest levels. Some for what we would simplistically call Order; others for what you would know as Chaos. It's obvious what team we need to root for."

William could only nod. He didn't believe it, but he didn't disbelieve any of it either. Suddenly, he could see the humanity behind the facade of power that Camilla wore

"You're not the first person I've reached out to about this, but you are, in my opinion, the most important. I'm not going to force you to join, I'm not going to threaten, or cajole. If I can't convince you of the importance of what I'm propo-"

"Yes." William interrupted.

"Wait. What?"

"I said...yes."

And why not? Because it made sense. It made too much sense. Why his powers were still with him, after all this time. Why he kept himself alive with a causality paradox, and why he kept his great-grandfather alive. Why the constant sense that there was some sort of destiny out there for him, some great and powerful moment - of what he thought was doom, only to discover it was more of transformation. _This_ was that moment. He could no more turn away from it than he could stop breathing or eating.

Furthermore, what would happen if he said no? What if the world did descend into chaos and confusion, as a whole new race of empowered individuals burst forth onto an unprepared humanity? What if the day came, years from now, where someone he loved died, or worse, because he could have done something about it, helped Camilla when she reached out for him, and he said no? What if she made a terrible mistake, one he could have talked her out of? The woman was literally asking him to play her conscience.

How was his answer ever going to be anything other than...

"I'm in. Whatever you have in mind, I'm in. I think i was always meant to help you. But...ah. I'd like to tell my wife. I know she suspects something, but I want to tell her the truth."

Camilla twitched her lips. "Oh. Well. Marvelous! Yes. Hmmm. Honestly, I had this whole speech prepared to try and convince you, but...anyhow. I _did_ anticipate you asking that question. I'd rather you not, but at the same time, I've worked up a psyche profile on Magda, and I think she can be trusted. But - not yet. At least, tell her about you, about your abilities, but nothing more." She reached into her coat one last time, and pulled out a thin slip of metallic paper. William held it up to the light: a holographic representation of a swan, spreading its wings up as if in flight, popped off from the surface, along with a linkcode.

"Give me two, three weeks tops. I'll be in touch again, and then I'll bring her in the rest of the way." She reached out, to squeeze his shoulder. "This is going to be wonderful. You'll see. A lot of hard work, to be certain, and dark days as well I'm afraid but...I'm feeling hopeful, and that, my dear, is the next best thing to feeling young. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to Geneva. There's a lot of work ahead."

William helped Camilla to her feet, escorting her to the door. Before turning away, she shook his hand one last time, smiled at him, and said, "See you soon, William. Oh...and welcome to the Black Swan Initiative."

With that, she turned and walked away, fading quickly into the twilight. 

* * *

_**A/N:**_ And that, as they say, is a wrap.

A few shout outs before I get into my "directors commentary." I want to say hi to all the lovely folk I've met this week on the LiS Discord server. I had a lot of fun brainstorming an AU story where Rachel, Steph and Chloe are all bad-girl greasers in a rockabilly band in the 1950s. I mean, I don't think _I'm_ going to write it, but I sure as hell hope someone does!

I want to specifically shout out to **KirstyIsStrange,** who struck up a really lovely conversation with me on Twitter, and invited me to check out Discord. I also want to say "hey" to **ByJillianMaria** on Tumblr, who is currently working on what I think is going to be really awesome original fiction.

Of course, there's **LonesomeBard** , writing wingman and artist extraordinaire. I always learn something so vitally useful when he reads over my work; Camilla's speech where she strikes a tone of humility, and asks William to keep her on the straight and narrow was a last minute addition that his feedback inspired. So thanks so much to him, and keep an eye out on his own excellent Saving Rachel Amber!

Oh! And of course I have to give one more bow to **White Story** , who initially inspired me to write this sequel in the first place.

So you Black Swan fans probably know who Camilla is; I hope you enjoyed her surprise turn in the Grande Dame universe. It gave me a chance to use material I'd developed for a potential Black Swan sequel; her origin story as presented here is pretty much the same as it was in Black Swan, except that as soon as she Emerged, she was naturally scooped up by Taskforce Excalibur, and eventually "loaned out" to SOAP in the early 1990's to head up Project Opticon. The rest, as they say, is history. Max knows exactly what bad thing happened to Camilla's mother, how she died, and why Camilla blames herself; it's in the letter SwanMax sends to Camilla in the last three chapters, and how she convinces her to take her words seriously.

Oddly enough, someone once wrote a very long and ranty critique over what they thought was wrong with the Black Swan universe. One bit they pointed out was that for the smartest lady in the world, Camilla didn't seem to be all that powerful, and so I thought, maybe it would be interesting to show what she could do if she was unchained, in a universe that has some sort of "machinery" behind it that could be exploited. Obviously, I'm invoking some themes of The Matrix here, but more importantly, I would say a lot of what is presented here is inspired by a truly excellent tabletop game, Mage: The Ascension. Camilla has effectively become a more benevolent, one-woman version of the Technocracy, trying to maintain order against an increasing threat of individuals who can screw around with it. Also, the notion of The Consensus (The System) is borrowed heavily as well. I could probably expound at length about my thoughts here but...I think I'm really too eager to publish to go on. Besides, I need to have something to talk about to folks who ask me questions in the future :)

Anyhow, thank you for coming along on what will be my last bit of writing in a long time...possibly ever, at least in terms of Life is Strange. Don't get me wrong, I love it so much, I always will, but at the moment, I feel like I've tread the ground I wanted to, said the things I've needed to. I hope this incredibly remarkable work continues to inspire authors for years to come. And maybe now, I'll actually have some time to read some of it :)

Have a great rest of 2017!


End file.
